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ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 
ELISABETH SANXAY HOLDING 


“Rosaleen observed that this fiercel y scorned and 
detested sentimentality very often caused people to 
act with the greatest nobility. While common-sense 
and enlightened self-interest seemed frequently to 
bring forth incredible baseness.” 


ROSALEEN 
AMONG THE ARTISTS 


BY 


ELISABETH SANXAY HOLDING 


AUTHOR OF “INVINCIBLE MINNIE,” ETC. 


NEW “& 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


‘i 


COPYRIGHT, 192 
BY GEORGE H. DORAN 


» 


PS Ne 
Ete As 


PAGE 


AMONG THE ARTISTS . . Pe Beis UG 
OBEORNPROSALEEN | 2. 6 et jes ie, few!) EBS 
ae js folk jah teh few 239 


BOOK ONE: THE BETRAYAL 


CHAPTER ONE 


No sooner had she got inside the door than the 
tears began to fall; and all. the way up the four 
flights of dark stairway they were raining down her 
cheeks. She had to wipe them away before she 
could see to put the latchkey into the lock. 

Everything neat, orderly, familiar; just as she 
had left it a few hours ago, and all seeming in its 
blank sobriety to rebuke her for her desperate hopes. 
She went into her own bare and chilly little room 
and lay down on the cot there, sobbing forlornly, 
clutching in her-hand the card he had given her—a 
sort of talisman by means of which she could re- 
construct the enchanted hour of that afternoon. She 
remembered every word he had said, every detail 
of his appearance. And, recollecting them, wept 
all the more to think what she must forego. 

“Of course, Yl never see him again!” she cried. 
“Tl have to forget all about him... .” 

But she knew that she could not forget him. It 


seemed to her that she had never seen so remarkable, 
If 


12 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


so attractive a person. His face, when he had turned 
round, that thin, dark face with its haughty nose, 
the underlip scornfully protruding, the serious re- 
gard of his black eyes... . 

She had not particularly noticed him at first, ex- 
cept as a gaunt and rather shabby young man sitting 
on the bench behind her on top of the bus. She 
had been absorbed in watching Fifth Avenue, which 
had, on that bright October afternoon, the absurd 
and exciting festival air it so unaccountably as- 
sumes. She was solemnly happy, singing under her 
breath, looking down at the people, the shops, the 
motor cars that were going by; when there came a 
sudden violent jolt and the coin she was holding 
had leaped out of her hand and fallen to the street 
below. And it was the only one she had! 

She had sprung up in a panic; ready to jump off 
the bus and walk all the long way home, but at the 
top of the little stairway she had met the conductor 
coming up. | 


1? 


“Fare: he had said, with suspicion. 

“I just dropped it—a minute ago!’ she ex- 
plained. “Iwas... I had a quarter in my hand— 
ancdit del) out. sew 

“Oh, it did, did it?’ said he. 

“T1l get off at once,” she said. 

“Oh, yes!” said the conductor. “Of course you 


THE BETRAYAL 13 


dropped it! But you just happened to be where 
you wanted to get off when you dropped it, though, 
didn’t you?” 

She gave a miserable, deprecating smile, anxious 
only to escape from this humiliation, to get away. 
When suddenly that young man had got up, put a 
dime into the conductor’s register, and raised his 
hat ceremoniously to Rosaleen. 

“Allow me!” he had said. 

“Ou! Thank you!’ she had cried. “Thank 
MO tie 

“Not at all!” said he. 

She had resumed her seat on the bench ahead of 
him, and tried to look with exaggerated interest at 
the street. But she was terribly distressed. She 
felt that she hadn’t said enough—not nearly enough. 
Surely she ought at least to suggest repaying him, 
or something of that sort ;—not to sit there and ride 
along, with her back turned to him. 

And though of course she couldn’t know it, he 
was just as troubled. He had heard her say that 
she had dropped a quarter, and it occurred to him 
that she might very well need the rest of it badly, 
for more carfare, perhaps, or something else very 
necessary. . . . In the course of time the idea be- 
came intolerable. He leaned forward and touched 


14 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


her gently on the shoulder; and she had turned to 
regard him with alarmed grey eyes. 

“‘T beg your pardon |... .” he beganteebucsse 
I'd be very glad... if you would permit 
meee ys 
He saw that she didn’t comprehend. 

“T overheard you say that it was a quarter you 
had dropped,” he said. “If you—perhaps you par- 
ticularly wanted the change... %” 

“Oh! ... No! ... No, thank you very much, 
indeed, but I don’t. I’m going right home. I— 
No, thank vou just the same!” 

She was so immeasurably grateful that she could 
not bear to turn her back on him; she faced him, 
confused, but smiling, passionately anxious to be 
nice to one who had been so nice to her.. 

“Tsn’t it a beautiful day?” she had said. 

"Yes, it is!” said’ he, ° “"Veras 

She kept on smiling, but it was a strained and 
wretched smile, and the colour in her cheeks deep- 
ened. A ridiculous, an intolerable situation! She 
couldn’t keep on in that way, twisted half round 
in her seat, and smiling and smiling. . . . She had 
to turn away. 

But a little later she turned back again. 

“Isn’t that florist’s window lovely?’ she had said. 


129 199 


“Yes, it is!’ he answered. ‘Very? 


THE BETRAYAL 15 


He, too, wished to be nice, but couldn’t; and 
once she had resumed her normal position, although 
then he thought of a number of things he wished 
to say, he couldn’t suddenly make remarks to her 
back. Neither could he touch her on the shoulder 
again, for he considered that would be vulgar. So 
after much thought, he finally got up and standing 
beside her and holding fast to the back of the seat 
to keep his footing on the lurching deck, he asked 
her if she could tell him what building that was? 

She did so, gladly. 

“T haven’t been in the city long,” he said, with a 
chivalrous desire to give her information about him- 
self. ‘I’m from Charleston.” 

“Oh, are you? Do you like it here?” 

“No,” he answered, promptly. “Not much.” 

She was a little taken aback at that, and while 
she was thinking of a polite rejoinder, the young 
man had taken from his pocket a leather case, and 
was proftering a card. 

Mr. Nicuoras Lanpry. 

“Thank you!” she murmured. 

He waited a moment, hoping perhaps for some 
sort of reciprocation, but none came. So— 

“May I sit down?” he asked. 

“Oh, yes, do!” she answered. 

A long time seemed to go by. — 


16 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


“TI wish—” he said, and paused. “I wish I could 
see you again.” 

There was a sort of self-assurance about him that 
somehow inspired her with confidence in him. It 
had not the least trace of effrontery, nor was there 
anything ingratiating about him. His air seemed 
to tell her that, if she didn’t want to see him, she 
need only say so, and that would be the end of it. 
He was quiet, courteous, but far from humble. He 
was, in fact, rather lordly. And she liked it. 

Pell oor sk she began. “I—Id like to—pay 
you back that fare. \ieen 

“Perhaps you'd let me call?” 

He was startled at her vehemence. 

“Oh, no!” she cried. ‘Oh, no! You couldn't! 
I’m sorry—but you couldn’t!” 

Her face had grown crimson and her eyes were . 
filled with tears, and she kept her head resolutely 
turned aside. 

This surprised, embarrassed and a little annoyed 
him. Did she think he was trying to force himself 
upon her? He said nothing more after that. 

But at last, as they drew near his corner, he spoke 
again. 

“Well!” he said, rising, with a slight sigh. “I’m 
sorry!” 

She turned quickly. 


THE BETRAYAL 17 


“TIf—if you'd like . . . to-morrow ... in the 
Fifth Avenue Library . . .?” 

Again he was surprised, amazed at this sudden 
and anxious invitation. But he politely concealed 

his surprise. 
“Nothing I’d like better,” he said. ‘What 
time?” 

“About three?” 

“T’1l be there!” he assured her. “Just where?” 

“Oh ... that hall that goes down to the circu- 
lating room. .. .” 

He stretched out his hand to ring the bell. 

“But you haven’t told me your name!” he said. 

“Oh! Rosaleen!” she said. ‘‘Rosaleen—Hum- 
bert.” 

Then once more raising his hat with-a smile that 
enthralled ‘her, he had vanished down the stairs, and 
a moment later she had seen him going down a side 
street—a lean young figure with a long stride. 


“T shan’t go!” she sobbed. “Of course not! 
What would be the sense? Id juste better forget 
all about him.” 

“Tt wouldn’t be fair! 
—if he knew ...he wouldnt want to see 


ier: 
Useless to recollect newspaper tales of dukes and 


39 


she went on. ‘‘Because 


18 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


chorus girls, of millionaires and waitresses, of 
Cophetua and the beggar maid in all its modern 
guises. All those people were different. There was — 
no other man like him, no other woman like her. 
What is more, Rosaleen had no faith in romance. 
Had not her history been what anyone would call 
romantic, and wasn’t it as cruel and dull and cold 
as any life could be? 

She sat up and dried her eyes. 
_ “No!” she said. “No use thinking about it... . 
No use making a fool of myself.” . 

It had grown quite dark. She got up and lighted 
the flaring gas jet on a wall bracket, and looked 
at the big impudent face of the alarm clock stand- 
ing on her austere bureau top. And at the same 
time caught sight of her own face, stained and swol- 
len with tears, but still lovely in its pure young 
outline, with the wise innocence of those drowned. 
grey eyes. The type one calls “flower-like,” with 
the exquisite fineness of her old, old race, the deep 
set eyes, the passionate and sensitive mouth, the 
strange look of resignation. She was rather fair, 
with light brown hair and a sweet and healthy 
colour; she was slender and not very tall; she looked 
fragile, but she was not. She had a strength, an 
energy, an endurance beyond measure. | 

An endurance well known and profited by in this 


THE BETRAYAL 19 


household. She brushed her fine hair and pinned 
it up tightly and carelessly; she bathed her eyes in 
cold water and tied an apron about her waist. And 
went along the corridor of the dark, old-fashioned 
flat to the kitchen. All neat as a pin there. Pota- 
toes closely pared, soaking in cold water, lettuce in 
a wet cloth, a jar of lard set to cool on the window 
sill, ready for the inevitable frying. She set to 
work briskly to prepare the supper, and when it was 
cooking on the stove, she set up the ironing board 
and began to press a pile of napkins and handker- 
chiefs. And began to sing to herself in a low and 
mournful voice. 

At six o'clock came the expected sound of a key 
in the latch, and presently a venerable grey-bearded | 
old gentleman put his head into the kitchen. 

“Well! Well! Well!” he said, benevolently. 
“Aha! Something very savoury there, I think, 
Rosaleen!” | 

“TI hope you'll like it,” she said, smiling. 

“Will it be long?’ 

“Not an instant. Tll.set the table now. Shall 
we wait for Miss Amy?” 

“T think not. I think not. Better get it over 
with, eh?” 

She smiled again, and putting up the ironing 
board, began at once to lay the table for three. The 


20 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


venerable old gentleman had vanished into his room, 
and was seen no more until she knocked on his door. 

“Dinner!” she said. 

He came out again very promptly, closing the 
door behind him, and took his place at the head of 
the table. He bowed his grey head, Rosaleen bent 
her sleek one, and he said a solemn grace. And 
then set to work to carve the scraggy little steak. 
It didn’t take much to make him grateful; their 
standard of living wasn’t exalted; tough meat, with 
potatoes and a canned vegetable, that was the regu- 
lation; then as a dessert either canned fruit or a pie 
from the baker’s. And the lettuce, which it was 
considered necessary for his health that Mr. Hum- 
bert should eat every evening. 

Rosaleen sat opposite him, still in her apron, 
thankful for once for his inhuman indifference. He 
wouldn’t notice that she had been crying. They 
didn’t talk; they never did. What could they possi- 
bly have to say to each other? 

The light from two jets in the gasolier over the 
table shone clearly, illumined every corner. All 
quite neat and clean, with a sort of bright stuffiness 
about it; a greenish brown carpet on the floor, a 
couch bed concealed by a green corduroy cover, four 
varnished oak chairs spaced primly against the wall. 
In one corner stood a sewing machine covered with 


THE BETRAYAL 21 


a lace tablecloth, on which was a fern in a pot 
decorated with a frill of green crépe paper. On the 
mantelpiece stood a geranium similarly ornamented, 
and on the table another. From the gasolier and 
from the curtain pole over the doorway were sus- 
pended half coconut shells filled with ferns. Hang- 
ing in the windows by gilt chains were two ‘“‘trans- 
parencies”; one was moonlight in Venice, all a 
ghastly green, and the other was a church with 
lighted windows gleaming redly over the snow: no 
doubt they were to compensate for the lack of any 
view except that of the wall of a courtyard. Noth- 
ing in this familiar hideousness to arrest Rosaleen’s 
glance; she looked restlessly about, longing for the 
venerable old gentleman to have done with his coco- 
nut custard pie. 

At last (of course) he did. 

“Don’t forget to save something for Miss Amy!” 
he said, and disappeared again into his cubicle. 

While Rosaleen went about her solitary work, 
washed the dishes, scoured the pots, boiled the dish- 
towels and hung them to dry, swept the floor, and 
at last could put out the gas and go away, leaving 
her domain in perfect order. Nothing more to be 
BORO r «i: « 

Then was the time when the pain, the unhappi- 
ness which she had thought to be conquered, and lost 


22 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


in resignation, came back to her again, stronger, 
more bitter than ever. In all her hard life there 
had never been anything so hard as the renunciation 
of this unknown young man. 

“But I won’t go to meet him!” she said. ‘He'd 
be sure to find out. And then it would be all the 
worse. . . . Now I’ve only seen him once, and if 
I never see him again, I'll soon forget him. Oh, 
much, much better not to go!” 

“But if he liked me very much, he wouldn’t care 
who I was!” 

That thought, however, held no consolation. He 
would care. She knew it. She had read in every 
feature of his face the most obstinate and tyrannical 
pride. 

“But maybe he’d never find out?” she persisted, 
desperately. 

And looked and looked in the mirror, with fer- 
vent anxiety. One might have thought she expected 
to see her secret stamped on her brow. 


CHAPTER TWO 
I 


Tuey thought she had forgotten, because she 
never mentioned anything of that, never asked a 
question. But she hadn’t. No! She remembered, 
and at her worst and loneliest, she longed for the old 
times. Besides, she had three times heard Miss 
Amy relating the story when they believed her to be 
asleep in bed, and each time she had heard it told, 
the most immeasurable bitterness, the most devastat- 
ing misery had rushed over her. 

“Why ever was I born?” she used to cry to her- 
self. 

And hadn’t she also heard Miss Amy murmur, not 
imagining herself overheard, that: You can’t make a 
silk purse out of a sow’s ear! What else can you 
expect from a girl like that? 

It had hurt and angered her so; it had left her 
without gratitude, without even justice. She quite 
hated Miss Amy. 

Lying in her bed that night all these feelings 


flamed in her with fiercest intensity, shame, bitter- 
23 


24 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


ness, and, above all, a great and unassuaged grief 
for that incomparable friend whom she had lost, for 
the kind and sturdy Miss Julie, dead these five long 
years. 

Miss Julie had meant to do a kindness. She in- 
tended—and if she had lived she would have suc- 
ceeded in—benefiting Rosaleen. 

“T remember it as if it were yesterday,’ Miss Amy 
had begun her thrice-told tale, ““The day that Julie 
brought her here. . . .” | 

Well, and didn’t Rosaleen remember it, too? 
Who better? 


Ik 


Ir had begun ten years ago in the Life Class at 
the Girls’ Institute of Practical Art where Miss 
Julie, bravely disregarding her thirty-five years, had 
commenced to study. Upon the death of their very 
old father, the three Humberts, brother and two sis- 
ters, had left their farm in Maine and had come 
to New York to live. They were independent now, 
and in a hurry to leave their old homestead, to be 
free from that atmosphere, where they had passed 
a dreary childhood and a youth frightfully oppressed 
by the old man. Crude, strong people, they were 
possessed of a strange and pitiful craving for ‘‘cul-. 


THE BETRAYAL | 25 


ture.” Perhaps because they were rather too old 
and too repressed for pleasure. 

Mr. Humbert had found a position in an office, 
fulfilling a lifelong dream of gentility, and his great 
hands, worn and roughened with the hard labour 
of the farm, seized eagerly upon the pen. He had 
made himself into the likeness of a scholar, without 
learning, without aptitude; he had covered himself 
with the shell of a scholar, and he deceived himself 
and his sisters and all the rest of their little world. 
Miss Amy had found it hardest to adapt herself. 
She was by nature the perfect village gossip, the 
meddlesome and vindictive spinster inflicted upon 
every community in all corners of this earth. She 
was cruel, jealous and stupid. Left to herself she 
had been unable to discover in all the city anything 
which really interested her. But a casual neighbour 
had taken her in hand, and under her direction she 
developed strangely. She became absorbed in In- 
terior Decorating. She had not a vestige of taste;. 
she never dreamt of applying at home any of the 
principles of which she read, but she dearly loved 
to see pictures and to read about fine old furniture, 
about rugs, about Antiques. She used to go to Auc- 
tion Sales with great pleasure. Also, with mysteri- 
ous facility, she made a number of friends. In the 
stores, the markets, in the street cars, she would 


26 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


drop into conversation with strangers, and she would 
never let them go. She managed so that within a 
year’s time she was able to go out somewhere nearly 
every day. 

Miss Julie, as we said, began at once to study art, 
with rapture. No one could imagine how she en- 
joyed that Life Class—a most refined and earnest 
class, thoroughly feminine, and inclined to fussiness. 
There were only twelve members and five of them 
had scholarships of which they were doggedly de- 
termined to take advantage. They came early, so as 
not to waste a minute, and they carried out every 
minute suggestion of the teacher. The models were 
all investigated, and a good reputation was of more 
avail than a fine body. Respectable women, gen- 
erally a trifle heavy, ‘‘picturesque”’ old men with 
white beards, a young man or so who was invariably 
struggling to study something, and was not to be 
discouraged by posing all day and amusing himself 
all evening. 

The class was on this particular morning as- 
ssembled, all ready, sitting before their drawing 
boards, and a little indignant at the delay. They 
couldn’t bear to waste time. 

“Ten minutes late!” said one of them. “It’s to 
be a child to-day, isn’t it, Miss Humbert?” 


THE BETRAYAL 27 


Miss Julie, as monitor, was informed and an- 
swered yes. 

“I don’t care about doing children,” said the 
student, “I don’t think they’re interesting. That 
last little boy was perfectly square.” 

Just then in came a fat, smiling woman in black, 
holding a little girl by the hand. Miss Julie pointed 
out the dressing screen, and they disappeared be- 
hind it. For an unreasonably long time their voices 
were heard, whispering. 

It was Miss Julie who voiced the indignation of 
the serious class. 

“Aren't you ready to pose yet?” she called out. 
“We've wasted over twenty minutes.” 

“Just a moment, please ma’am!”’ answered the 
woman’s pleasant voice, and presently she emerged, 
still leading the child by the hand. Reluctantly the 
little thing came out from behind the screen, a thin, 
white body; then suddenly she broke violently away 
from her mother and disappeared again. 

“Saints deliver us!” said the woman with a sigh. 
“Did you ever see the like?” 

And she went after the child, and evidently tried 
to drag it out, for it began to cry, in a low, hoarse 
little voice. 

“No! No! Ican’t! No, Mommer! I can’t!” 


28 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


$7 


“Naughty little thing!’ said one of the serious 
students, with a frown. 

But Miss Julie had got up and gone behind the 
screen. 

“What's the matter?’ she demanded, with 
severity. 

“That child!” said the mother. ‘“She’s that obsti- 
nate there is no reasoning with her at all. She’s 
made up her mind she will not stand out there for 
the young ladies to draw.” 

“Why?” demanded Miss Julie. 

“Some silly notion,” said the mother. 

Miss Julie looked down at the little girl; she 
had pulled her dress round her shivering little body 
and was crouched against the wall, with eyes to 
break your heart, full of terror and anguish. Miss 
Julie was shocked. 

“What’s the matter, pet?’ she asked, gently. 
“Aren’t you well?” 

The child couldn’t answer, only shook her head, 
while tears began to roll slowly down her cheeks. 
Miss Julie went down on her knees beside her, and 
tried to put an arm about her, but she cowered 
away. 

“Tell me!” she entreated. ‘Why don’t you want 
to pose, my dear?” ? 


THE BETRAYAL 29 


With lips trembling so that she could scarcely 
speak, the child told her. 

“I want... to—get dressed....I don't 

. want them to see me.” 

“Hasn’t she posed before?” Miss Julie asked the 
mother. 

“No, she has not. I’ve done the best I 

“Do you mean to say you're trying to force her 
—when she feels as she does—when she’s 
ashamed?” 

The stout woman did not flinch at all before Miss 
Julie’s stern glance. 

“Tt will do her no harm,” she said. ‘Only for 
these young ladies and while she’s so young.” 

“It’s very wrong!” cried Miss Julie. “It’s—it 
shouldn’t be allowed.”’ 

“She’s engaged already. For two hours at fifty 
cents an hour. She needs the money and she will 
have to do the work for it,’ the mother remarked 
grimly. “Go on with you, Rosaleen!” 

“Get dressed!” said Miss Julie to the child. 
“You can pose in a costume. I'll find something.” 


99 


She explained as well as she could to her class- 
mates, but received no general sympathy. Most of 
them thought the child was awfully silly. 

‘And she’s made us waste half our time,” said 
one of them. “I’m going to complain in the office.” 


30 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


Miss Julie devised a costume which she said was 
a gipsy dress. She went behind the screen again 
and found the little girl in underwaist and petticoat, 
buttoning up her poor, scuffed little boots. 

“We'll take those off,’ she said. ‘‘You won't 
mind being bare-legged.” 

She dressed the little thing while it stood there 
like a doll. A beautiful child, too thin and alto- 
gether too small for its years, but very charmingly — 
and gracefully built; it had deep-set clear grey eyes 
and a wistful small face, broad at the brow and 
tapering to a pointed chin, like a kitten’s. And it 
had about it something which enslaved Miss Julie, 
some mystic and adorable quality which she could 
not name, and which no one else saw. } 

She unfastened the two scrawny little “pig tails” 
and let her ill-kept brown hair fall about the neck, 
pitifully thin, like a bird’s; then she tied a broad 
scarlet ribbon about her forehead and put on a short 
spangled jacket over the underwaist. She looked 
very unlike a gipsy, with her meek glance and her 
fair skin, but she was undeniably lovely, and the 
class set to work drawing her without further grum- 
bling. She was quiet as a lamb, quick to obey any 
suggestion, evidently anxious to atone for her 
naughtiness. She looked pitifully tired, too. 

Miss Julie was quite determined not to let this 


THE BETRAYAL 31 


child vanish. She resolutely stopped the stout 
woman as she was leaving. 

“You won’t make her pose any more, will you?” 
she said, entreating. 

“Tm a poor woman,” said the mother, ‘‘and I 
have to do the best I can.” 

“But it’s fe 

“It’s fifty cents an hour, Miss, that’s what it is. 
And I need the money that bad.” 

“ll find something better for her to do,” said 
Miss Julie, rashly. “If you'll give me your name 
and address, [ll find something mwch better. Only 
—she mustn’t do this. It’s not right, feeling as she 
does.”’ 

“Only Saturdays and after school,’ said the 
mother. “I do the best I can for her, but ’tis not 
very much, where there are six and me a widow. 
She goes regular to the Sisters’ school, and she is 
doing fine there. She’s not twelve yet and ‘ 

“She’s very small for that age,” said Miss Julie. 


“She is small,” her mother agreed, ‘“‘and childish- 
like for her age. But she’s smart. Last Christmas 
didn’t they give her a prize—a book with poetry in 
it—for elocution.” 

Miss Julie had wished to ne this mother as 
a brute, a fiend; she had not enough experience or 
subtlety to comprehend lights and shades. Every- 


32 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


one must be good or bad, and no shilly-shallying. 
So she regarded this note of pride in the woman’s 
voice as hypocrisy. 

She watched them as they went out, the rusty 
widow with her profoundly cynical red face, the 
fragile, shabby child clinging to her, stealing side- 
long glances at the ‘‘young ladies,’ who were get- 
ting ready to go home. She was determined to save 
that lovely and abused child. 

She had hurried home to “consult” her brother. 
Not that she had any real regard for his opinion 
or any desire to know what it was; she knew, in 
fact, that he probably would advise her to use her 
own judgment. But she considered it decent to 
consult the man in the house; so she approached 
him with her idea. 

“A lovely little thing,” she said. ‘Really beauti- 
ful—and so intelligent looking.” 

“Yes?” said Mr. Humbert. 

“And something really refined about her... . 
Really, Morton, I should like to adopt her.” 

That roused him. A child in the place! Im- 
possible! He tried to argue, but he couldn’t. He 
was never able to. He had some queer constitu- 
tional inability for argument; a fatal lassitude 
would overwhelm him before he had begun even to 
express his views. He always ran away, shut him- 


THE BETRAYAL 33 


self into his own room and forced himself to forget 
whatever it was that he had found unpleasant. 

“T’d have to see the woman, of course,—investi- 
gate ...” he said, hoping in this way to push the 
whole topic away into the distance. 

But his sister agreed with alarming promptness. 

“Of course!”’ she said. 

Well, then, two days later, when he came home 
from his office, and as usual put his head in at the 
kitchen door to announce himself and to see what 
was going forward, he saw sitting in two chairs side 
by side a voluminous widow and a thin little girl, 
drinking cocoa with relish and with NG Sean little 
fingers crooked in the air. 

“This is Mrs. Monahan!”’ said Julie, briefly. 

He saw that he was expected to go in and ques- 
tion this stout woman with an amused red face, and 
he would have preferred death. 

“T’ll leave the matter in your hands, Julie,” he 
said, and hastened into his own room, positively 
trembling with fright. 

It wasn’t long before Julie knocked at his door. 

“We've come to a temporary arrangement,” she 
said. “I actually believe that woman’s glad to be 
rid of her child.” 

Forgetting that the forlorn little child was still 
sitting in the kitchen, and able to hear every word. 


34 ;ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 
III 


Quite true that Mrs. Monahan had agreed to 
abandon her child almost completely. She loved 
Rosaleen, but she didn’t feel it necessary to have 
her with her; and anyway, hadn’t she plenty of 
others? To know that Rosaleen was living in com- 
fort somewhere in God’s world was quite enough. 
She hadn’t a trace of sentimentality. An excess, 
even very slight, of whiskey or even of strong boiled 
tea, could cause Mrs. Monahan to shed tears and 
to ‘shake her head with delicious melancholy over 
life and its pains, and she professed to look upon 
death as a blessed release. But all this in no way 
affected her actions. She resigned her lovely child 
to this erratic and sentimental spinster because she 
saw very clearly the benefits which might be ob- 
tained. But she would not even pretend to be 
grateful. 

Later in the evening she returned as she had 
promised, bringing with her a bundle of Rosaleen’s 
effects, and she found her child sitting on a sofa 
in the sitting room, holding before her face a big 
geography book which Miss Julie had said contained 
interesting pictures, while behind it the tears were 
trickling slowly down her cheeks. She rushed at her 
mother like a whirlwind, and kissed her and em- 


THE BETRAYAL 35 


braced her, clinging to her desperately. Mrs. Mona- 
han also wept, but nevertheless went away. 

Miss Julie’s heart ached for the deserted little 
creature. 

“There! . There!” she said. “You mustn’t cry, 
dear! Come! We'll go into your own nice, comfy 
little room and put your things away, and then 
you'll feel more at home.” 

She led her into a decent enough little cell, clean 
and orderly, and opened the little bundle. It did 
not contain what, according to all proper stories of 
poor little girls, it should have contained, the tradi- 
tional clothes, few in number, but neatly patched 
and darned, and spotlessly clean. Mrs. Monahan 
had taken it for granted that a new outfit would 
be bought for Rosaleen, and she hadn’t wasted her 
time mending things that would certainly be dis- 
carded. She had, on the contrary, kept all Rosa- » 
leen’s better things at home, for the other children, 
so that what Miss Julie unwrapped was poor 
enough. | 

“A bundle of rags!”’ she reflected, shocked. 

She didn’t quite know what to do with the child 
that evening. She was very anxious to make her 
happy, to console and comfort her. She sat down at 
the piano and played all her small repertory— 
marches, polkas, mazurkas, and waltzes, all of the 


36 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


brilliant style. But Rosaleen was thoroughly accus- 
tomed to piano playing; every family she knew had 
one piano-playing daughter. Her mother had once 
had a piano, on ‘‘time payments”; it had had to go 
back whence it came after three months, but she had 
enjoyed experimenting on it while it lasted. 

Then Miss Julie gave her picture books to look at, 
things insultingly beneath her intelligence. This 
good lady didn’t realise that Rosaleen had for a 
long time been treated as an adult; that she sat with 
her mother and her mother’s friends, listening with 
profound interest to long tales of illnesses, births, 
deaths, of bad husbands and good ones, of tragedies 
beyond the knowledge of this household. Babies 
scalded in wash tubs, women maltreated by their 
men, girls who disappeared, lingering illnesses in 
bleak poverty. So blank and desolate for her was 
this first evening at the Humberts, that she was glad 
enough to go to bed at nine o'clock, although her 
usual time was at least two hours later. 

Miss Julie tucked her comfortably into her clean 
little bed, opened the window, put out the light and 
kissed her good-night. 

“If you want anything, call me!” she said. “Are 
you quite comfortable, and all right, pet?” 

The child answered, ““Yes, ma’am!’ But almost — 
before the door had closed upon her benefactress, 
she was weeping bitterly. 


THE BETRAYAL 37 


Miss Julie let her sleep late the next morning, 
and when she finally awakened, she was greeted by 
a new face, beyond words welcome to her, a good 
wrinkled old Irish face. It was Mrs. Cronin, who 
came in to wash by the day. 

“They’re all out!” she announced to the little 
girl. “You and me will be keeping house together 
ali the day. How will that suit ye?” 

Rosaleen said it would suit her grand; she dressed 
in great haste and hurried into the kitchen, where 
Mrs. Cronin gave her some nice bitter black tea 
which had been sitting on the stove this long while 
to get the strength out of it. She likewise pilfered 
a little bacon fat from Miss Amy’s carefully pre- 
served jar, and fried an egg in it. 

And in the process muttered of Miss Amy, in 
uncomplimentary vein. 

“Her, with the long nose of her poking into every 
bit and bite a poor old woman would be eating. 
. . . Never a drop of milk does she leave for me, 
nor meat to taste on the tip of your tongue... . 
Well, now, then, how’ do you like all of this, and 
the fine new home, and all?’ 

“T do not like it,” said Rosaleen. “I wish. .. .” 
She choked back a sob. ‘I wish I was home again.” 

‘“Whist! Ye have no sinse at all!” cried Mrs. 
Cronin, secretly delighted. ‘Did ye not sleep in 
a fine bed last night?” 


38 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


“The wind did be blowing on me!” she said. 
“For the window was left open.” 

“?Tis one of their notions,’ said Mrs. Cronin, 
scomfully. ‘They pay for coal to keep up a fire 
the night long and then lave the windows wide.” 

Rosaleen then told her that she wasn’t used to 
sleeping in a room alone or in the.dark. 

_ “There’s a street light shines in our window the 

night through,” she said, “and there’s the lot of 
us, my mother and my sister and the baby and ay 
self. *Tis more sociable like.” 

They talked with gusto for hours. They were 
equals, in spite of the fact that Mrs. Cronin was 
sixty and Rosaleen eleven. Mrs. Cronin told a 
deeply interesting story of her sisters boy who had 
been sent to a Protectory, for no proper reason at 
all; a case of flagrant injustice which Rosaleen un- 
derstood perfectly, one of her own brothers having 
been threatened. Rosaleen was not downcast now, 
- or tongue tied; she, too, had stories to tell. Modest 
and gentle she was, as ever, but a citizen of the 
world, with experience. albeit vicarious. 


IV 


Ir had gone on for five years, a life of boredom, 
of loneliness, mitigated only by the unfailing kind- 
ness of Miss Julie. A flat, insipid existence. She 


THE BETRAYAL 39 


found the Humberts’ conversation unfailingly dull, 
their routine almost intolerably stupid. She longed 
beyond measure for the comfort and freedom of 
her old home. 

All this had astounded Miss Julie. She was never 
able really to see how impossible was her task, 
never realised that she could not mould this fragile 
and wistful child into a Humbert. Or reach her. 
Material pleasures made no appeal to that simple 
soul; she cared next to nothing for good food, good 
clothes, a soft bed. She was always docile, thor- 
oughly a good child, ready, obedient, sweet- 
tempered. She didn’t give the least trouble, and 
never asked for anything. But she nevertheless dis- 
appointed Miss Julie. She didn’t seem to change 
as she should have changed. Their cultured at- 
mosphere didn’t transform her. She sat at their 
table night after night, meek and clean, with down- 
cast eyes, never speaking unless spoken to, always 
and forever the poor widow’s child in the stranger’s 
house. | 

Miss Julie did her best. She sent her to school; 
she gave her kind and tactful information about 
baths and toothbrushes; she saw that she was well 
fed and nicely dressed. She took her to the circus 
every spring, and now and then to an entertainment 
considered suitable. Also she taught her to play a 


40 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


few babyish pieces on the piano, and, what most 
pleased the little girl, she had begun to teach her 
to draw. When all those activities were cut short 
by her death. 

Even now, after five years, Rosaleen couldn’t 
bear to look back upon that. She had been des- 
perate with grief, a little mad thing. She had been 
brought in to look for the last time at her friend, 
she had seen her lying there, much the same as usual, 
a stout, sallow woman with blunt, good-humoured . 
features. And for the first time that face did not 
smile at her, that voice did not speak to console and 
to reassure her. 

Miss Amy had no comfort to give. She had never 
liked the child. She consented now to keep her, be- 
cause ‘‘dear Julie would have wished it,’ but she 
kept her as a servant, an unpaid servant, with “‘privi- 
leges.”” She sat at the table with them, she was 
still nicely dressed, she was given a little—a very 
little—pocket money. And she was permitted to 
go every Sunday afternoon to see her mother. Miss 
Amy had no inclination for continuing Miss Julie’s 
battle. She did not wish to improve Rosaleen. Miss 
Julie had tried with all her tact, all her ability, to 
divorce the child from her family, but Miss Amy 
encouraged intercourse. It helped to keep Rosaleen 
in her place. | 


CHAPTER THREE 
I 


TuHosr days were gone now. There were no 
more of those Sunday afternoons in her mother’s 
kitchen. A sister had married well, and the whole 
family had migrated to Boston, where the unwilling 
and resentful son-in-law could “‘keep an eye” on 
them. Rosaleen had written two or three times to 
her mother, but had never had an answer. And 
with her sorrowful resignation, had given her up as 
lost. | 

But whenever a dark hour came, her memory 
flew back to that spot, recalled to her that time spent 
in the dreadful dirty old kitchen with her mother, 
a little bit intoxicated, seated before the table 
covered with oilcloth, and usually a neighbor or. 
two, widow women, or married as it might be, all 
drinking tea and complaining. There was always a 
baby sister or brother crawling about the floor, and 
a cat; it was always warm, steamy, indescribably - 
friendly. The depth of it, the vitality, the kind, 
consoling human flavour of it, of those slovenly 


women who were forever bearing children, whose 
Al 


42 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


talk was of life and death, of pain, sorrow and 
earthly joys! Compared with it, the hurried arti- — 
ficial conversation of Miss Amy and Mr. Humbert 
was like the talk of shadows. .. . 

She was thinking and thinking of it that night. 

“All right!” she said, bitterly. ‘I won’t deny it! 
I’m common! I’m not happy here. I don’t belong 
here. I don’t appreciate it. I hate it! I wouldn’t 
be like Miss Amy for anything. . . . Of course he'd 
soon see that. He’d find out that [’m—com- 
OMe te 
But she couldn’t bear the thought. She sat up 
in bed. 

“Oh, but I haven’t had a chance!” she cried. 
“ve never had achance! Oh! .. . If I could just 
see him alone, I could show him that ’m. . .” 

She could not explain to herself just what she 
knew herself to be, just what it was that she wished 
this young man to know. It was that pitiful secret 
thought of all human beings, whether a fallacy or 
a profound truth can never be demonstrated—the 
thought that if you know me, you will love me, that 
if you hold a poor opinion of me, it is because you 
misunderstand me. 

Perhaps after all she would go, just this once, 
just see him, and trust to his comprehension. . . . 

She waked up the next morning, still undecided, 


THE BETRAYAL 43 


her heart as heavy as lead. She dressed in the 
dismal twilight of her little cell, weighing and de- 
liberating, hesita*ng miserably. At last it resolved 
itself into this bald alternative—which way would 
cause her the least pain—not to meet him, to lose 
him forever now, at the very beginning, to destroy 
this promise of the first interest any man had yet 
shown in her—or to let it go on, to let her starved 
and ardent affection rush out to him, to become 
fatally entangled in the web of her own making, 
only to have him find her out and despise her? 

She went into the kitchen to get ready the break- 
fast, and in there, a back room looking out over 
little yards, the sun was beginning to enter. She 
could see a soft blue morning sky, with shadowy 
white clouds blown across it by a mild and steady 
wind. It cheered her marvellously. She was as 
easily made happy as she was easily hurt. 

She started to grind the coffee, in itself a cheerful 
morming noise. 

“Oh, nonsense!”’ she said to herself. “I’m making 
a mountain out of a molehill. Of course [ll go 
and meet him. Why shouldn’t I? It’s just a lark. 
It won’t lead to anything, if I don’t want it to. 
There’s no need for me to be so serious about it. 
I’m going!” 

She was well used to keeping her own counsel. 


44 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


She looked and she acted just the same as usual; 
when Miss Amy appeared she found breakfast on 
the table, as it should be, and Rosaleen occupying 
a few spare moments in dusting. ) 

“Good morning, Miss Amy!” she said, in her 
gentle, her almost meek little voice. 

Miss Amy answered curtly, and looked into the 
kitchen to see if all was in order. She was a stout 
grey haired woman with a face as dark as a gypsy’s 
and a long, sharp—an almost wolfish, nose. She had 
a perpetual smile, a smile which she had schooled 
her lips to assume, in her terrible efforts to subdue 
her own fierce nature. She was a woman of natural 
ferocity and violence, but controlled and dominated 
by a passionate desire to be good. So well did she 
tule herself that she very rarely spoke a sharp word, 
and though she had a deep-rooted and unshakable 
dislike for Rosaleen, she treated her with generosity. 
She made her work; that, she considered, was good 
for her, and in every way fitting and proper. But 
she likewise considered that she and her brother 
were morally responsible for this girl, and she paid 
out of her own pocket for Art Lessons, for an occa: 
sional Shakespearian matinée and other items of 
cultural importance. 

Anyone who has experienced it will admit how 
immeasurably painful is the combination of hostility 


THE BETRAYAL 46 


and gratitude. Rosaleen was obliged by her own 
heart to dislike Miss Amy, and by her soul to recog- 
nise her benefactions. They were in all things op- 
posed and hostile. Rasaleen was a fool possessed 
of common sense and Miss Amy was a practical 
woman without any. 

Rosaleen brought in Miss Amy’s little dish of 
prunes. 

“Anything I can do for you downtown to-day, 
- Miss Amy?” she asked. 

“Oh, yes, of course! It’s your lesson day. No, 
thank you, Rosaleen, there is nothing.” 

Mr. Humbert now appeared to be fed. He ate, 
pretending to be absent minded so that no one > 
should bother him about anything, and went away to 
his office. Then Miss Amy began leisurely to get 
herself ready to go to market, while Rosaleen washed 
the dishes and made the beds. 

“You'd better hurry!” she said. ‘You'll be late, 
Rosaleen!”’ 

But Rosaleen was only waiting for her to be gone, 
so that she could put on her best blouse and her 
white gloves. 


II 


Miss Juiz had always encouraged Rosaleen’s 
fondness for drawing. In fact, it may have been 


46 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


the drawing lessons she had given the little girl and — 
her fervent talk of ‘‘art’” which had given Rosaleen — 
the idea of becoming an artist. But, whether the 
ambition was implanted by nature or by Miss Julie, 
the ability was born with her. She had an un- 
doubted facility. In the long hours she had spent 
alone in the flat, she had comforted herself with her 
little talent, copying the covers of magazines and 
inventing romances around the imbecile beauties. 
And as time went on, and her companions at school 
admired her work, her pride and her hope increased. 
She saw in this career as an artist a chance of escape, 
for freedom. 

When she was graduated from the High School, 
at eighteen, she said that she should like to study art 
seriously. Miss Amy had agreed at once, and Rosa- 
leen had then showed her an advertisement in the 
Sunday paper which she had noticed for some weeks. 

European Art TEACHER would accept one or 
two more young lady pupils. Very moderate terms. 
Address F. W. 

They had addressed F. W., and in the due course 
of time received a letter signed “Faith Waters,” in- 
viting them to call the next afternoon at four. They _ 
had discovered the European Art Teacher living in 
a dark, old-fashioned flat on Tenth Street, with one 
light room at the back which she had made into a 


THE BETRAYAL 47 


studio by filling it with plaster casts on crooked 
shelves put up by her own hands. The teacher her- 
self was a withered little woman in a crushed and 
dusty brown dress, with a black velvet bow in her 
cottony white hair, and she had the cultured voice 
of one who has been to Europe. 

Rosaleen looked about at the photographs on the 
walls of various persons in stage costume, signed 
A ma chéere Miss—Bien a vous—and so on. She 
supposed that these were artistic foreign friends of 
Miss Waters’, never suspecting that they were noth- 
ing more nor less than second rate stage people to 
whom she had taught English. 

“I suppose you’ve lived abroad a long time?” said 
Miss Amy. 

“Oh, dear me, yes!” said Miss Waters. “I 
studied in Brussels for years!” 

She didn’t explain that this nad been thirty years 
ago, and in acheap pension de demoiselles, and that 
she had never seen the inside of a foreign art school, 
or studied under any master except the miserable 
old man who had taught drawing as an extra to the 
demoiselles. | 

“T’ll show you some of my work,” she had said. 
“T haven’t a proper place to hang them here. The 
light is so bad you'll hardly be able to judge... . 
Paituetils. 


48 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


She led the way to the dining-room, where her 
canvases hung in profusion. She specialised in ani- 
mal life, kittens, puppies, and—timidly—horses. — 
The horses were supernaturally stalwart and 
spirited, with tremendous chests and heads flung 
back splendidly, but Miss Waters was conscious of 
many weak points in them, grave deficiencies. She 
knew that sweet little kittens were more in her line. 
Horses were, after all, rather grossly big animals, 
and she did them only as an exercise in virtuosity. 

Rosaleen and Miss Amy had been a trifle disap- 
pointed in Miss Waters’ work. They both had a 
feeling that animals were not truly artistic. Flow- 
ers, landscapes, women and children, were what 
they had expected and desired. Still, a group of 
six puppies in a row, astoundingly alike and yet 
each one in a different attitude, compelled their 
admiration. : 

“Of course,’ said Miss Waters, “¢hzs is my real 
work. The teaching is only a side line. But I do 
love teaching. It is such a wonderful privilege to 
help in developing a talent. Some of my pupils are 


b] 


among the foremost artists in the country.” 

She needn’t have gone on so recklessly, because 
her visitors were already in quite the frame of mind 
she desired. ‘That, however, she couldn’t know. 

“Portrait painters, landscape painters, painters of 


THE BETRAYAL 49 


historical and religious subjects. . . . I’ve taught 
them all. And I’ve been—well,” she confessed, with 
a modest smile. “I’ve been very fortunate, I must 
say. My pupils are among the most celebrated 
artists in this country. Not always the best known,” 
she hastened to add. “Their zames might not be 
familiar to you. . . . But they rank very high.” 
All superfluous. For Rosaleen and Miss Amy 
the fact of her being an artist sufficed. They took 
it for granted that any artist knew all about art, 
just as they would have expected any blacksmith to 
understand all about horseshoeing. Then and there 
Rosaleen was put into her hands to be developed. 
And she had been going faithfully, three days.a 
week, for nearly two years, progressing steadily 
under the system which Miss Waters had found 
successful with her pupils in the past. A great deal 
of drawing in charcoal from casts at first, then water- 
colours, and then oils. When you began to work 
with oils, the drudgery was over; accuracy was no 
longer required, or outlines. The system also in- 
cluded what Miss Waters called “‘just a bit of the 
History of Art,” short talks and readings, which 
contained not a vestige of information about art 
and some very remarkable history. It was in fact 
nothing more than a collection of anecdotes about 
artists. Generally there was a king, who visited the 


50 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


artist in disguise, or came up behind him on tiptoe, 
and who was struck dumb by the verisimilitude of 
the painting before him. That was indeed the meas- 
ure of an artist’s greatness—that a horse tried to 
eat his painted hay, a bird his fruit, that a man tried 
to sit upon his picture of a chair, or to smell his 
flowers. A picture was a picture. | 

Rosaleen had progressed beyond casts now, and 
was devoting herself to watercolours. She was learn- 
ing the Rules of Perspective, and her suspicion was 
becoming confirmed, that Art was a sort of profes- 
sional mystery to be learned as one learned law or 
medicine. She began to feel that she was getting a 
grasp of the thing. 

She was an altogether satisfactory pupil and Miss 
Waters was proud of her; she was bright, docile, 
and very industrious. 

But what was the matter with her on ¢hzs morn- 
ing? 

She sat before her patient little drawing of a 
ruined castle on a hilltop, unable to draw a line, 
making a weak little scratch now and then, and 
rubbing it out as soon as it had appeared. 

“What zs the trouble, Rosaleen?’ asked Miss 
Waters. “Don’t you feel well?” 

“Oh, yes, thank you, Miss Waters! I feel well. 


THE BETRAYAL 51 


Only ...I don't know how it is... but—I 
don’t feel like drawing a bit to-day.” 

“IT know, my dear child!” said Miss Waters. 
“[m the same way myself. It’s the beautiful 
autumn weather. It’s hard to concentrate on work. 
It puts me in mind of my student days, in Brussels.” 

She sighed. Those long years, in Paris and Brus- 
sels, trotting about from one English family to an- 
other, teaching drawing, from one jolly demi-mon- 
daine to another, teaching English; the bare little 
rooms she had shivered in, the dismal pensions, the 
dreadful straits in which she had so often found 
herself, poor solitary muddle-headed little foreigner! 
And yet she had loved it, that illusion of an artistic 
life; friendless and poor as she was, she had had 
her pleasures, had dined at the little restaurants 
where she could at least see artists, had spent hours 
and days in the picture galleries, had felt gay and 
adventurous and irresponsible. 

“Tl tell you what, Rosaleen!”’ she cried sud- 
denly. ‘Suppose we both go out and take a turn 
round the square? It might do us both good— 
freshen our brains!” 

Rosaleen looked at the clock. Half past two; 
her lesson didn’t end till three, and she had allowed 
herself half an hour to get up to the Library. She 
couldn’t think what to say. 


52 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


Miss Waters believed that she hesitated because 
she didn’t want to waste any of her lesson time. 

“We'll go out, just for a ‘blow’,” she said. “And 
then you can come back and work extra late, and 
we'll have tea together. I haven’t any pupils this 
afternoon.” | 

‘“But—lI have to stop at the Library and get a 
book for Miss Amy,” said Rosaleen. ‘And—I 
promised to take it home early.” 

Miss Waters looked a trifle disappointed. 

“Well, then,” she said. ‘Go ahead working until 
your time’s up, and then [’1l walk up to the Library 
with you.” 

Aghast, horrified, Rosaleen pretended to draw, 
thinking desperately of some means of getting rid 
of Miss Waters. While all the time she could hear 
Miss Waters getting ready, scrabbling about in her 
bedroom, dropping things, and hunting for other 
things in bureau drawers. Presently she came out, 
and in spite of the mild October day, she was wear- 
ing her dreadful old sealskin coat with the high, 
puffed shoulders that made her look so huddled, and 
perched high on her cottony hair, the small fur hat 
that always blew off. It was always an infliction 
for Rosaleen to walk with this poor old scarecrow, 
and on this day it was nothing short of torture. 

Sedately, arm in arm, they walked along Tenth 


THE BETRAYAL 53 


Street and turned up Fifth Avenue, Miss Waters 
leaning heavily upon Rosaleen and chattering with 
youthful exuberance, roguishly aware of the 
glances that followed her. And her hat did blow 
off, and bowled along ahead of them, like a dusty, 
terrified little animal, until a man stopped it with 
his foot and with disdain and in silence returned 
it to the dishevelled artist. She thanked him, 
giggling, gathering her cottony hair in both hands 
to stuff it back under the hat. 

“T thought I had a pin in it,” she explained. 

After this, she looked wilder than ever, and the 
rough October wind swirling about her skirts re- 
vealed a hole in each of her stockings. And pres- 
ently she gave a dismayed shriek, and clutched her 
sealskin coat about her. 

“Oh!” she cried. ‘The button’s just come off?’ 

“What button?” asked Rosaleen. 

“The button on my coat. Have you a pin, my 
dear?” 

“Tm sorry, but I haven’t. Does it matter much?” 

“Of course! How can I keep my coat together?” 
Miss Waters demanded, plaintively. 

“But—you must have more than one button!” 

“No, I really didn’t bother about sewing on the 
eneren OR! 2). . My hat!” 

And as she grasped after the hat with both hands 


54 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS. 


the coat flew wide open, to reveal its tattered rose 
coloured lining, hanging in shreds, and the crushed 
and dusty old dress. 

“HHadn’t we better go back?” said Rosaleen. 
‘And Ill come in and sew your coat for you.” 

Anything would be better than to meet hém with 
this companion; better to lose him forever. 

“Oh, no, thank you, my dear. As long as I’ve 
gone this far, I'll go the rest of the way. Ill fix it 
in the library.” 

So there was no escape possible. Arm in arm 
with Miss Waters she must ascend the imposing 
flight of steps, enter the library, and advance along 
the lofty corridors. 

She saw him! Sitting on a bench, reading a 
magazine with a sort of severe preoccupation. But 
Rosaleen knew that he had seen them and was only 
pretending he hadn’t. They drew nearer and nearer. 
She was thinking frantically. Should she speak to 
him anyway, or was he annoyed at her for coming 
with Miss Waters? Or was he simply being tactful, 
desiring to avoid embarrassing her with his unsanc- 
tioned presence? She couldn’t decide. They drew 
nearer and nearer . . . they were abreast of him. 

. She threw him one anguished glance, but he 
did not look up from his magazine. .. . They 
passed him, and went into the circulating room. 


THE BETRAYAL 55 


This was too awful! 

“Would you just please ask if they have ‘Some 
Colonial Chairs’ ?” she cried hastily to Miss Waters. 
“T think I see someone I know . . .” 

And rushed out. But he was no longer sitting on 
the bench. She caught a glimpse of him, vanishing 
round the corner. 

She went back to Miss Waters, and had to carry 
home a huge, heavy volume which she remembered 
Miss Amy having had from the library some years 
ago. 

She got into the bus with it, waved a cheerful 
good-bye to Miss Waters, and went off home. 


CHAPTER FOUR 
I 


Sue. was lost in an apathy of despair. He had 
come and he had gone, this lover for whom she had 
been waiting for years. In all her solitude, her 
restlessness, her great discontent, that had been her 
great hope; any day she might meet him, any day 
it might happen, and her life would really begin 
at last. 

And now it was over; he was gone, and there 
was nothing further to expect. She let herself into 
the flat—her home—her prison—her grave. 

There was a great bolt of white stuff lying folded 
on the sewing machine to be made up into respect- 
able and sturdy underclothing for Miss Amy. After 
she had taken off her hat and jacket and washed 
her hands, she sat down before this work, which she 
usually attacked with such earnestness, such profes- 
sional interest. But her heart failed; she let the 
scissors drop idly in her lap; to-day she could not 
work, to-day she didn’t care. Her sombre eyes stared 
straight before her, at the transparency of moonlit 


Venice. 
56 


THE BETRAYAL 57 


“Oh! . . . If I'd been alone, we'd have taken a 
walk together . . . I'd have had a chance to be— 
attractive. . . . Now, of course, I'll never see him 
again. How can I? I don’t know where he lives. 
. . . He'll never bother with me any more. Why 
should he? Of course, he knows lots and lots of 
beautiful society girls. . . .” 

She sat there, thinking of the charming women 
he must see every day, and who must of course all 
love him. She was sure that he knew dozens of girls 
prettier, more accomplished, a hundred times more 
fascinating than herself. And yet felt sure that if 
she had a proper chance, she could win him, felt 
that there was some peculiar quality in her which 
was in no other living woman. 

The afternoon dragged by in a weary and painful 
waking dream. She hurried through the prepara- 
tions for dinner, resentful of anything that dis- 
tracted her long reveries. Nothing else held the 
slightest interest for her. If she could get him back? 
If she would ever see him again? If the beneficent 
Fate which had brought him to her would still direct 
the thing, would help her once again? 

They sat at the table, they talked, their usual 
constrained and formal talk. Then Miss Amy went 
out and her brother returned to his room and his 
great work—his romance of the time of Nero. 


58 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


Rosaleen really admired it, without any particu- 
lar interest in it. And she felt a very feminine 
satisfaction that the man in the house had found 
for himself an occupation which kept him quiet, and 
out of the way. Every evening for years he had 
shut himself into his room directly after dinner, to 
write. He had begun this romance when he had 
first come to the city, but he did not progress rapidly, 
for he had often to interrupt its course while he 
studied. His studying consisted in reading “Quo 
Vadis” and “Ben Hur’ and dozens and dozens of 
other novels of the same sort, and making diagrams 
of their plots, according to a scheme he had adopted 
from his well-read manual—‘“‘The Road to Author- 
ship.” On large sheets of paper he drew a waver- 
ing curve upward to the Climax, then down, then 
perhaps up again two or three times, for all the lit- 
tle anti-climaxes. Each character had its own 
wavering line, leading up and down, crossing or 
running parallel to the “main theme.” In a big 
exercise book he kept an index of the characters he 
had most admired in all these novels, with little 
sketches of their histories, traits, etc. 

He now felt altogether familiar with that epoch. 
He knew just the proper set of characters for the 
scene, a Christian slave girl, a gigantic, faithful and 
muscular porter, a humourous pariah, and so on, 


THE BETRAYAL 59 


and all the unfortunate crew of pious and humble 
folk predestined from the first chapter for martyr- 
dom. A romantic work, for Mr. Humbert was 
romantic, in a masculine way, you must know, about 
facts, not about people. 

He enjoyed this literary work with immeasurable 
relish. It completely distracted his mind from his 
business, from his home, from Life. He didn’t care 
much for Life. It was too rough, too complicated, 
too large. He was glad also to forget about his sis- 
ter, whom he dreaded, and Rosaleen, who worried 
him by her helplessness. She was a good, kind girl, 
but he hadn’t much of an opinion of her. Uninter- 
esting. . . . Her only hope lay in marrying a de- 
cent, respectable man who would look after her, and 
her chance of finding and securing such a man 
seemed to Mr. Humbert very remote. 

He heard her stirring about in the kitchen, alone 
in there, washing the dinner things. He shook his 
venerable head. 

“Poor Rosaleen!”’ he said, with a sigh. 


Il 


RosaLeENn had, in her long exile, cultivated a 
demeanour, an expression which was quite un- 
fathomable by her housemates. She had a sort of 


60 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


meek and lowly grace, so much the air of the grate- 
ful child rescued from poverty, that it never oc- 
curred to them to regard her as anything but this 
regulation type. Miss Amy had seen others of the 
same sort in the course of her charitable labours. 
Of course, Rosaleen was grateful, or, as Miss Amy 
preferred to put it, appreciative; how could she 
logically be anything else? Miss Amy was not aware 
that in Rosaleen there was no logic, no reason, and 
it must be admitted, very little justice. She was 
completely composed of feeling. She had a per- 
petual resentment against the Humberts which no 
sense of obligation could assuage. She passionately 
preferred her frequently intoxicated and always 
avaricious mother; although Miss Amy was unde- 
niably a good woman and her mother was no more 
and no less than a human being. Self-interest was 
absolutely lacking in Rosaleen. She cared not a 
whit what you did for her, or could do for her. She 
had an inexhaustible fund of devotion, of intense 
and absurd affection, but it was not to be bought, 
it was not even to be won. She had pity, mercy, 
compassion beyond measure, but it went only by 
favour. 

And she had a limitless fortitude. She was not 
a fighter; she was not one to struggle for what she 
desired; her strength was in her terrible resignation, 


THE BETRAYAL 61 


her fatalistic endurance. She would weep—she was 
weeping now—for this probable lover whom she 
had lost, but there was no rebellion in her grief. 
From her very early days she had learned to look 
upon life as a sad and ironic affair, from which one 
could expect little. 

“Ah, that’s the way of the world!” her mother 
would say, but always of some disaster. 

And it was no doubt the way of the world that 
this had happened. 


III 


WueN Friday came she didn’t go to Miss 
Waters’. She had not intended to tell Miss Amy 
she wasn’t going, but to her dismay Miss Amy sud- 
_ denly returned at noon, and found her playing on 
the piano, one of the babyish pieces of her small 
repertory, taught her by Miss Julie: “The Brownies’ 
Ball.” Small consolation in that sprightly little 
tune for a suffering heart, but it was all the music 
she could make, and she needed music. 

“What are you doing at home?” asked Miss Amy. 
“Isn’t it your day for going to Miss Waters’ ?” 

“T don’t feel well,” said Rosaleen. “I have a 
headache.” i 

“Then youd better lie down, instead of sitting 
drumming on the piano.” 


62 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


“T feel better when I’m sitting up, Miss Amy.” 

“T dare say you're bilious. Put on your things 
and go take a good brisk walk.” 

“T don’t feel a bit like taking a walk!”’ Rosaleen 
protested, but in vain. 

“All the more reason for going!” said Miss Amy. 
“That sluggishness isa symptom. Run along now!” 

She stood by grimly while the miserable and re- 
luctant girl got ready and went out. Then she went 
into the kitchen for a glass of water, and she saw 
hanging up on a rack one of her blouses, beautifully 
laundered that morning by the child who said she 
had a headache. It hung before her, soft, lustrous, 
every little gather in place, the collar so crisp and 
smooth, the embroidery standing out in fine relief. 
It looked like . . . Did it look like a reproach? 


IV 
_ Saturpay followed, a busy day, devoted to house- 
cleaning. Rosaleen swept and dusted and cleaned, 
took down curtains, beat rugs and sofa cushions, 
and baked a cake, all according to custom. And 
Sunday, too, passed as it always did. They all 
went to church in the morning, and spent the after- 
noon in dignified drowsiness. Even Rosaleen was 
affected; she sat in the front room with them, read- 
ing a book, but near the window, so that from time 


THE BETRAYAL 63 


to time, when there was an interesting sound of foot- 
steps or voices, she could look out into the street. 
So many couples going by, arm in arm... . 

On Monday she was quite ready to go to Miss 
Waters’ again. Art had lost its charm, to be sure, 
but it was something after all. Very little com- 
pared to Love, but a great deal when compared to 
solitary confinement. 

She went into the studio and sat down before her 
still unfinished landscape, opened her paint box, and 
tried to begin her work. 

“Ts that you, Rosaleen?” called a cheerful voice 
from the bedroom. 

“Yes, Miss Waters.” 

“You naughty girl!” 

“T know it. . . . I’m sorry I didn’t come down 
PMecdy oe but...” 

“My dear! ‘I was young once myself! I don’t 
blame you, not the least bit in the world. I don’t 
blame you for forgetting all about work! He’s ger- 
fectly charming!” 

“Who!” cried Rosaleen. 

“Oh, I know all about it!’ said Miss Waters 
archly. ‘That nice young man of yours. You 
know that day we went to the library together? 
Well . . . He came tearing after me as I was walk- 
ing down Fifth Avenue, and he asked me if you’d 


64 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


gone home. . . . The most beautiful manners, my 
dear! .\... A real Southern: gentlemant/ ye te 
was so disappointed when he found you'd gone. He 
said he’d seen us go zm, and he was waiting for us to 
come ow?. And he walked all the way down here 
with me, talking about you all the time. And I 
said why didn’t he go to call on you? And he said 
he would—that very evening.” 

SOhL wr Miss Water. 

The desperation in her voice startled the Euro- 
pean Art Teacher. She came out of her bedroom, 
still fastening the crooked little ‘“‘vestee’” of her 
brown dress. 

“Did you miss him?” she asked, anxiously. 


172 


“He never came! 


“That’s queer! He said he would. . . . He sat 
down and talked—the longest time. . . . No one 
could have been nicer. . . . He asked all sorts of 


questions about you.” 

“Well, what did you fe// him?” cried Rosaleen. 
“He never came!” 

Miss Waters sat down and thought, with a deep 
frown. 7 
“My dear, it couldn’t have been anything I said. 
Not possibly. I didn’t speak of you except as an 
artist. I said how talented you were. And what a 
lovely disposition you had. Nothing else at all.” 


THE BETRAYAL 65 


No one could have better appreciated the situa- 
tion than Miss Waters, no one could have better 
understood the need for the most extreme care and 
caution in dealing with men. The poor defrauded 
creature was convinced that at least three of the 
Su. ‘mental “disappointments” of her past had come 
from trifling mistakes she had made, minute errors 
of judgment which had frightened away the elusive 
and fastidious male. Her eyes filled with tears. 

“My dear!” she said. “I hope there’s no misun- 
derstanding! So many young people have had their 
lives absolutely wrecked and ruined by misunder- 
standings.” 

Rosaleen shook her head. 

“No,” she said. ‘There isn’t any misunderstand- 
ing. There couldn’t be. . . . But I don’t under- 
stand it.” 

She picked up her brushes and began to paint, and 
Miss Waters, to keep her company, sat down before 
her easel, to put the finishing touches to a copy she 
was making of one of her earlier works—‘“The 
School,” she had called it, five puppies and five kit- 
tens, some in dunces’ caps, some wearing spectacles. 
She was aware that she could no longer conceive and 
execute such paintings now, she had to be pales 
with imitations of her past virtuosity. 

Absorbed in their dismal reflections, they scarcely 


66 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


noticed the flight of time. Miss Waters looked up 
startled when the clock struck one. 

“One o'clock!’ she observed. “I never mane 
Rosaleen, you must stay and have lunch with me!” 

Rosaleen had nothing on earth to go home for, 
so she agreed, and the hospitable Miss Waters 
rushed out to the French delicatessen nearby, where 
she could buy curious and economical things. 

And whom should she see on the corner but that 
young man, standing there patiently! She came up 
behind him, cautiously as a hunter stalking a deer, 
and touched him on the arm. 

“Well!” she cried, in pretended surprise. ‘‘Mr. 
Landry!” 

She knew that he was waiting for Rosaleen, but 
she knew also that he wouldn’t like her to know that. 
Oh, she did understand something of men! She 
knew that his pride must be saved at any cost. So, 
when she saw a bus drawing near, she pretended to 
believe that he was about to get into it, and en- 
treated him not to. 

“Oh, don’t get in!” she cried. “I wish you'd just 
stop in at my studio and have a little lunch with 
Rosaleen and me. You're not in too much of a 
hurry, are you?” 

He smiled down at the dishevelled and anxious 
creature with streaming white hair—like a witch, he 


19? 


tT a 


THE BETRAYAL 67 


thought. He was pleased that she thought he had » 
been waiting for the bus, and he was very glad that 
neither she nor anyone else knew that he had waited 
there on that corner on Friday as well, remembering 
what he had been told were the days and hours 
of Rosaleen’s lessons. And he was delighted that 
he could see Rosaleen and pretend that it was acci- 
dental. He was surprised and a little ashamed at 
his own longing to see her, by this feeling which he 
could not deny or resist, for a girl of whom he knew 
nothing. 

“Td be very pleased,” he said. And turned and 
walked down the street, with Miss Waters hanging 
on his arm, both pockets of her famous fur coat ' 
bulging with delicatessen. 

“How is your work coming on?” he asked Miss 
Waters. “The School? The one you showed me?” 

“Oh!” she cried, archly, delighted at his remem- 
bering. ‘The idea! I haven’t done much more on 
it since then. However, I’ll show you.” 

She led him down the hall, and at the door of 
her flat turned, with a finger at her lips. 

“Surprise her!’ she whispered. 

Landry followed her to the studio and stood 
obediently quiet on the threshold, to contemplate his 
unconscious Rosaleen. And became lost, absorbed 
in looking at her. 


68 ‘ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


She seemed so much younger, like a school girl, 
in her sailor blouse, with her fair, untidy hair and 
her serious preoccupation with her work. How dear 
she was! How innocent and fine and lovely! 

‘“Rosaleen!”’ called Miss Waters, in a voice trem- 

bling with excitement. 
~  Rosaleen glanced up, to meet the serious and un- 
smiling regard of her hero. 

They were both confused, embarrassed, almost 
alarmed; their eyes met in a glance singularly bold 
and significant, belying their formal smiles, their 
casual words. 

“TI missed you the other day,” said Landry. 

“TI know ... I was sorry .. . I had to hurry 
HOME nog 

He crossed the room and stood beside her, looking 
down at her drawing. 

“It’s very pretty,’ he said, with constraint. 
“What is it for?’ 

“Ohl... Justa pictures 

Miss Waters had been watching them like a stage 
director. 

«Sit down, Mr. Landry !” she said. 

“T don’t like to interrupt Miss Humbert’s 
WOTK. rhue 

“Nonsense! She’s a very good pupil, you know, 
and she can afford to take a little holiday, now and 


THE BETRAYAL 69 
then. And you're going to stay and have a little 
lunch with us, aren’t you?” 

He yielded, because he hadn’t the heart to do as 


~ he wished—to ask Rosaleen out to lunch and leave 


the poor old creature behind. 

“T'll have something nice and tasty ready in a 
jiffy!” she cried. ‘“‘Rosaleen, you entertain Mr. 
Landry!” 

They were left alone, Landry standing beside 
Rosaleen, both of them speechless. He looked 
stealthily down at her, at her light hair, at the 
soft colour in her cheeks, at her pretty childish throat 
rising from the open neck of her sailor blouse. And 
he bent down and kissed her cheek. 

She didn’t look up; she bent lower over her work. 


1? 


“Rosaleen!” he said. ‘You darling! 

“Tm awfully glad to see you!” she murmured. 
pi tnought ... .” 

“What did you think?” 

“I thought—perhaps I shouldn’t ever see you 
again.” | 

“IT had to come,” he said, truthfully, ‘I couldn’t 
help it.” 

And fell silent, startled by his own words, by his 
own course of conduct, so altogether different from 
_ what he had planned. He had particularly wished 
to avoid seeing Rosaleen alone. He had certainly 


70 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


not expected to kiss her, or to want to kiss her. He 
walked across the room and pretended to be looking 
at Miss Waters’ picture. He was ashamed of him- 
self; he had no business to kiss her; it was dis- 
honourable and unkind. He stole a glance at her, 
and saw her, still bending over her work, but with 
flaming cheeks and a hand that trembled. He 
couldn’t bear that! He strode over to her. 

“I’m sorry!” he cried. 

Of course she didn’t answer; he didn’t expect 
her to. 

‘Please let me come to see you!” he went on. “I 
want to know you better... . Dll tell you all 
about myself. . . .” 

“Oh, no!” she cried. ‘I can’t! Really I can’t! 
IT can’t have anyone! I’m sorry, but—I can’t!” 

“But—can’t I see you again, then? Don’t you 
—won’t you letme. . .? 

’ she answered can- 
didly. ‘“Only—not at home. Can’t we meet some- 
where ?” 

“But don’t you see?’ he said with an earnest 
scowl. ‘“It—it isn’t the thing. If you'll let me 
come to your house, and—more or less explain my- 


self, it makes everything quite different. If I could 


393 


“Yes, I do want to see you,’ 


see your parents. .. . 
‘“I—they aren’t my parents. It’s—an uncle. 


THE BETRAYAL 71 


. - - But—what could I tell them, anyway? If I 
said ’'d met you like that, on the bus fe 

“T quite understand that. But you could say 
that you’d met me here at Miss Waters’. You have, 
you know. It would be true.” 

“No!” she protested, with such vehemence that 
he was startled. “I can’t let you come. [ll meet 


33 


you somewhere 

“Look here!” he said, severely.. “You can’t—it’s 
not the thing for a girl like you to be meeting a 
man on street corners, like a servant girl.” 

Her face grew scarlet. 

“Very well!” she cried. ‘You needn’t see me 
at all then!” 

He retreated instantly before her wrath. 

“All right!” he said, hastily. “I w// meet you 
—anywhere you like.” | 

“Oh, no you won't!...ITm not going to 

.’ A sudden loud sob interrupted her. “.. . 

not—like—a servant girl... .” 

He was horrified at the sight of tears in her eyes. 

“T didn’t mean that!” he cried. ‘Please don’t! 
Please don’t! I think you—you’re perfect!” 

And before he knew it, his arm was about her 
shoulder, and her head pressed against his chest, a 
clumsy, a boyish embrace. 


192 


“Don’t cry, darling!”’ he entreated. 


72 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


She remained motionless. And with a respectful 
hand he touched her hair. , 

“Please meet me!”’ he said. 

“In the library—on Wednesday—at four.” 

She didn’t ask; she commanded. And he sub- 
mitted. 


Vv 


Miss Waters entered with the lunch on a tray, 
and young Landry sprang to assist her. He was, 
Rosaleen observed, remarkably nice and tactful with 
Miss Waters. He ate what she had provided and 
praised it. Afterward she brought out a white 
china flower pot half filled with moist, bent ciga- 
rettes, and offered him one; took one herself, too, 
though it caused her to cough horribly and would 
very likely make her sick. However, it gave a Euro- 
pean touch. She was enchanted with the atmos- 
phere, to find herself nonchalantly smoking ciga- 
rettes in a studio in the company of a young and 
attractive man. 

She had a rhapsody of praise for him after he 
had gone, and Rosaleen listened to it with delight. 
Then she too went home. She was proud, trium- 
phant, exultant. But it was a most perilous Joy; 
she dared not examine it. Those words haunted 


THE BETRAYAL 73 


her. She mustn’t meet him on street corners—like 
a servant girl. 

She was dusting the top of Mr. Humbert’s desk. 

“What else am I?’ she asked herself, with 
terrible bitterness. ‘They talk about my ‘advan- 
tages,’ and my being a ‘member of the household’ 
. . . But what am I really?” | 

She flung down the cloth. 

“Oh, what’s the use!” she cried. ‘It might just 
as well end now, better end now—than after he 
finds out.” 


CHAPTER FIVE 
I 


ROsALEEN’s great mistake lay in not telling him 
then. Because at this time he wouldn’t have cared. 
At this moment she was still a romantic and thrill- 
ing figure, not yet quite flesh and blood, still with- 
out flaw or fault. Her pitiful history would only 
have enslaved him more completely. And as he grew 
to know her better, he would have known her with 
this fact, this history in his mind. Whereas, on 
the contrary, he was beginning to love a girl who 
did not exist. : 

He saw her transcendent kindness, her absolute 
lack of egoism, her rare and lovely spirit, but he 
called it and he thought of it as ladylike delicacy. 
It was her soul; he thought it was her manners. 

He walked all the way home, reflecting upon her, 
lost in a revery half troubled, half delightful. A 
sweet, a wonderful girl—but obstinate. And obsti- 
nacy he did not like. He was the most outrageous 
young tyrant who ever lived. He ruled everyone, 
he always had ruled everyone. His mother had 


never thwarted him,. his sister had never rebelled; 
74 


THE BETRAYAL 75 


whatever friends he had selected in school and col- 
lege had followed his lead with satisfactory sub- 
missiveness. He had the qualities of a leader; the 
immense self-assurance, the severe determination to 
get his own way, and he had that magic idea in his 
mind, which subtly communicates itself and changes 
the very atmosphere, which enthralls all minds more 
sensitive and therefore less positive—that idea of 
his own superiority. He came of an old Carolina 
family, and he believed himself to be better born 
than anyone about him; he had been successful in 
his studies, and he believed himself to be cleverer 
than anyone about him. Appearance didn’t trouble 
him; he didn’t think himself handsome, and he 
didn’t care. He knew very well that he was attrac- 
tive, and that people liked him. Even the fact of 
being poor didn’t bother him. He wouldn’t stay so. 

So, lordly and thoughtful, in his shabby over- 
coat and his worn shoes, he mounted the steps of 
the imposing house in which he was living—his 
aunt’s house. She had begged him to live there 
until he was ‘‘settled.’? He had consented; he didn’t 
feel under obligations; he thought it was nice of 
her, but her duty. He would have been glad, in 
her place, to help a young Landry to get on his feet. 

A respectful Negro butler opened the door, and 
he entered and went up to his own room—a hand- 


76 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


some and well-furnished room, with bureaus and 
wardrobe and chest of drawers all lamentably 
empty. In the huge closet hung only a decent suit 
of evening clothes and some white flannel trousers, 
and in two of the bureau drawers lay piles of shirts 
and underwear which his aunt herself mended and 
mended. She wouldn’t have so much as suggested 
replenishing his stock; he would have felt himself 
grossly insulted. 

He had left his beloved mother and sister in 
Charleston, where they were living with difficulty on 
a very small pension, and he took from them only 
an incredibly small sum, enough for carfares and 
that sort of thing, until he could be earning some- 
thing. But though waiting was hard for them and 
hard for him, he would not be hurried. Until he. 
could find a place which seemed to him advantage- 
ous, he would take nothing. He knew what he was 
about. Now was his chance, and perhaps his only 
chance, to look about him. He intended to make 
a good start, to go into a business in which he could 
stop. Let him only see an opportunity; he asked 
no more. 

This evening his plan for the future was changed 
and enlarged. It contained, as always, lavish pro- 
vision for his mother and sister, but it included 


THE BETRAYAL 77 


Rosaleen. In the course of the next few years he 
was going to marry her. 

He had, however, too much sense to mention any- 
thing of this, to hint at the existence of a Rosaleen, 
in that household. It wouldn’t be gallant. He was 
supposed to admire his cousin Caroline; not to the 
point of compromising himself; everyone knew he 
wasn't in love with her. But while living there 
and seeing her every day, it wouldn’t, he felt, be 
polite to fall openly in love with someone else. 

His aunt was a woman whom he thoroughly ad- 
mired. Possessed of a gracious and charming world- 
liness, she had nevertheless the most severe morals, 
the most rigid code. She didn’t like New York or 
its people; she was shocked at almost everything; 
she said the women weren’t ladies and the men 
weren't chivalrous; that the people altogether were 
vulgar and “fast.” But, she said, she was obliged 
to live there for the sake of Caroline’s studies. It 
wasn't really quite that; however, her intention was | 
natural and praiseworthy, and she did her best to 
accomplish her unspoken ambition for her child. 

Nick Landry enjoyed living there. It was a 
well-appointed and well-managed home, with an 
air of perpetual festivity. There were always young 
men about, and theatre parties and dinner parties 
and little dances—all the charmed atmosphere of a 


78 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


home with a young girl in it. Mrs. Allanby had 
known how to make the place agreeable, even fas- 
cinating for young men. ‘That was her part; to 
provide Caroline with a matchless setting. To see 
Caroline sitting at the piano, under a lamp with a 
shade of artfully selected tint, charmingly dressed, 
and singing in a voice a bit colourless but so well 
bred; to know that there would be punch—not too 
much of it, for Mrs. Allanby was vigilant,—sand- 
wiches and cakes such as no one else ever had; and 
an air of flattering attention, an enveloping hospi- 
tality—wasn’t that a deadly snare? And Nick was 
the privileged guest, the man of the house. Of 
course he liked it! 

So that evening while he sat there listening to 
Caroline sing, and thinking all the time of Rosaleen, 
he felt almost treacherous. And just a little proud 
of his well-concealed secret. He felt that his dark . 
face was inscrutable. . . . 

Perhaps, he thought, at that very instant, Rosa- 
leen too was sitting at the piano in her home. 


II 


Ir was one of Nick’s old-fashioned ideas—that a 
man must always be the first to appear at a tryst, 
must unfailingly be found waiting by the beloved 


THE BETRAYAL 79 


woman when she arrived. He had made a point of 
being at least fifteen minutes in advance of the 
appointed time, so that Rosaleen should see him 
there, in chivalrous if somewhat irritable patience. 
He was always ready to wait for a woman, to defer 
to her, to serve her; he believed it to be his duty 
as a gentleman; and yet so fierce and haughty was 
his spirit that he was never without an inward 
resentment. 

He was waiting for her now in the corridor of 
the Fifth Avenue library. It was a wet October 
afternoon; he sat on a stone bench with his coat 
collar still turned up, the brim of his hat still turned 
down, just as he had come in from the street. He 
hadn’t even taken off his tan gloves, soaked black 
by the rain; he didn’t care how he looked, and he 
knew Rosaleen wouldn’t care either. He had cer- 
tainly not the look of an expectant lover, this lean 
and shabby young man with his haughty glance, his 
ready-made overcoat too large for him, his big rub- 
ber overshoes over old and shapeless boots. And 
yet more than one girl stole a glance at him. 

Quarter of an hour late! He only wished that 
he could smoke. He was beginning to feel chilly, © 
too, and terribly depressed. Wet people going past 
him and past him, some alone, some in couples, 
treading and talking quietly. He regarded them 


80 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


with morose interest. All of them after books! 
. . . Hadn’t he too tried to live that way, vicari- 
ously, through books? All very well as a substi- 
tute; but there came back to him now, very vividly, 
the bitter restlessness, the torment that would seize 
him when he read of some enchanting foreign land, 
of fierce and desperate adventures. Of course he 
knew that his life wouldn’t be, and couldn’t be, at 
all like any other life ever lived in this world; and 
yet, in spite of his faith in his own destiny, he 
fretted so, he chafed so at these slow years, these 
hours so wasted. What was the matter? Why 
didn’t life begin? 

He was pleased enough with this romance with 
Rosaleen. This was quite as good as anything in 
books. Only, to be really perfect, love should have 
been mixed up with peril, with terror, with gallant 
rescues. It should have been a drama, and it was 
nothing but an emotion. He was still so young 
that he could not imagine death; it seemed to him 
inevitable that he should live and that Rosaleen 
should live, until they were old—granted, of course, 
the absurd premise that young people really do be- 
come old. He saw no shadow over life, no fear of 
change or loss. 

He stirred uneasily. Twenty minutes late! This 
was abusing her feminine privilege! Doubly unfor- 


THE BETRAYAL 81 


tunate, too, because he had come prepared to remon- 
strate with Rosaleen, and the longer she kept him 
waiting, the chillier and damper he grew, the more 
severe would the remonstrance be. 

At last he saw her coming, and her sweetness 
almost disarmed him. And then made him even 
more severe. A girl like that, to be meeting a man 
about in public places! A girl so pretty, so charm- 
ing, that people stared at her. . . . The damp air 
and her haste had given her a lovely colour, and as 
she hurried toward him, he found for her a piti- 
fully time-worn simile which nevertheless struck 
him as startlingly novel and true—she was like a 
wild rose. 

She had very little ‘‘style’’ ; her clothes were rather 
cheap, he observed. But she was superlatively 
ladylike, refined, modest. He wouldn’t have had 
anything changed, from her sturdy little boots to 
her plain dark hat. 

He rose and came toward her, hat in hand, and 
for a moment they looked at each other, speech- 
lessly. 

“Suppose we have tea?’ he said, at last. 
“‘There’s a nice place near here where they have very 
good waffles.” 

“Tm not a bit hungry,” said Rosaleen. 


82 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


Nick was. He had gone without lunch in order 
to have enough money for tea. | 

“You ought to be, at your age,” he said. 

“Tt isn’t age that makes you hungry,” said Rosa- 
leen. “It’s what you’ve had for lunch.” 

Nick said no more, but took her by the arm. And 
was surprised and shocked to feel how fragile an 
arm it was. He determined that she should eat a 
great deal. 

He stopped near the door to reclaim their um- 
brellas, and they went out together into the chilly 
and misty twilight. The crowds on Fifth Avenue 
jostled them, but Nick, tall and grim, held his um- 
brella high over Rosaleen’s head, and led her to the 
quiet little tea room he had selected. 

“Now, then!” he said, when they were seated 
opposite each other at a small table, and tea and 
waffles and honey had been ordered. And he began. 

He told her first of all what was expected of a 
young girl: | 

By the world in general. 

By men. 

By himself. 

He told her how easy it was to be misjudged. 

And how serious. 

Then he told her how he particularly didn’t want 
her to be misjudged. 


THE BETRAYAL 83 


“You must let me come to see you in your own 
home!”’ he said. “You're so young that you don’t 
realize how indiscreet and—how dangerous it is to 
be meeting a strange man this way. You don’t 
know anything about me. And you ought to. I 
want you to. There isn’t anything I want to—to 
conceal. I want you to know me and.all about me. 
And I want to know all about you.” 

Once more he was horribly disturbed at seeing 
her eyes fill with tears. He leaned across the table. 

Speoonenerc. he assured her. ‘Please! Don't 
care! Don’t imagine that—if there’s anything you 
think I might .. .” 

He didn’t know how to proceed. He stopped a 
moment, frowning, to arrange his ideas. 

“T don’t care where you live, or how you live, or 
what your people are,” he said. “It can’t make any 
difference to me. It’s only for your sake. I wish 
you'd believe me. It’s only because it’s not fair to 
you to go on meeting you like this. Because I mean 
to goon. I’m going to see you. And I want it to 
be in your home. Please let me, Rosaleen.” 

It was the first time he had used her name. 

“Please let me!” he entreated. 

She gave up. She told him yes, to-morrow eve- 
ning; for Miss Amy would not be home then. 


84 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


III 


Ir was a nice, respectable house in a quiet street 
below Morningside Park. He was agreeably sur- 
prised at its respectability, for he had scented a 
mystery in Rosaleen’s reluctance to have him come 
—great poverty, perhaps, or a disreputable relative. 
He went into the vestibule, and looked for the bell. 
There it was—Humbert—; he rang; the door 
clicked, and he entered. An old-fashioned house, 
the carpeted halls were dark and stuffy; he climbed 
up and up, and on the fourth landing there stood 
Rosaleen. 

She was very pale, and the hand she held out to 
him was cold as ice. An altogether unfamiliar 
Rosaleen, silent, even, it struck him, a desperate 
girl. She led him into the dining room. | 

“Excuse me just a moment!” she said. “Tl tell 
—my uncle—you’re here.” 

And vanished, leaving him alone. He looked 
about him with interest, because it was Rosaleen’s 
home. And he was sorry that it was such a stuffy 
and unlovely one. He was used to large rooms and 
fine old furniture, to a sort of dignity and fineness 
in living. This dining room, with its swarm of deco- 
rations, the crowded pictures, the scrawny plants, the 
flimsy and ugly varnished furniture, the sewing ma- 


THE BETRAYAL 85 


chine, the dark red paper on the walls, distressed 
him. He sat down on one of the straight chairs 
against the wall to wait, trying to imagine his fair 
Rosaleen in this setting. 

In the meantime Rosaleen had hurried to knock 
at the door of Mr. Humbert’s room. 

“Mr. Morton!” she murmured. ‘‘Here’s a young 
man—a—a friend of Miss Waters. . . . Would 
you like to come out and see him?” 

“Presently,” the dignified voice replied, and Rosa- 
leen hastened back. 

“‘He’ll be in presently,”’ she repeated to Nick, as 
she returned. He had risen when she entered, and 
once more he took her hand. Her nervousness, her 
distress, filled him with pity. 

“Isn’t there anyone else? Do you live all alone 
with your uncle?” 

“Oh, no! There’s . . . there’s—-a—cousin .. . 
But she’s out. . . . Won’t you sit down?” 

When he had done so, she fetched him a book 
from a little table. 

“Would you like to look at some views?” she 
asked. 

“No,” said Nick, smiling. “I wouldn't.” 

“Would you like to play cards?” 

“No! Id rather talk to you!” 

She sat down on the edge of the couch—that 


86 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


couch covered with green corduroy, with nine sofa 
cushions of the most frightful sort. 

Now Nick unconsciously expected a girl to do 
the talking, and the pleasing and the entertaining. 
Gallant responses were his part. So he waited, but 
quite in vain, for Rosaleen had no tradition of enter- 
taining, and no experience. Never before had she 
sat in that room with a young man. 

‘Have you any of your work here?” he asked, at 
last, in despair. 

“Just those!” she answered, pointing to the trans- 
parencies. ‘There isn’t any place for me to draw 
here.”’ | 

“Very pretty!” said Nick. “Are you going to 
be a professional artist?” 

“T hope so. It takes years, though.” 

She was silent for a moment; then she went on, 
dejectedly: 

“Sometimes I think I never will succeed. I don’t 


b 


seem to improve. And I love it so : 
“Don’t take it so seriously.” 
“T have to. Ive got to earn a living by it.” 
“T don’t believe you'll ever have to earn your 
living,” said Nick. ‘Not a girl as—lovely as you.” 
She blushed painfully, even her neck grew scar- 
let. And he felt his own face grow hot. 


THE BETRAYAL 87 


“1... he began. ‘There are sure to be plenty 
of men who'll want to do that for you.” 

There was a distressing silence. He found it 
very hard to keep from saying: 

“IT will! I’m going to work for you, and get you 
everything in the world you want, darling wild 
rose!” 

And to divert his mind from this dangerous 
thought, he rose and picked up the book she had 
had in her hand. 

“Are these the ‘views’?’ he asked. ‘Looks very 
interesting. . . . Won’t you show them to me?” 

And he sat down beside her on the couch. He 
really didn’t think it a particularly significant or 
daring thing to do; he had sat beside a great many 
other girls; he was neither impudent nor presump- 
tuous, and no one ever had objected or seemed at 
all disturbed. So that he was surprised at Rosa- 
leen’s agitation. He didn’t know how formidable 
he was to her; how mysterious, how irresistible. 
Her hands shook as she took the book of views and 
opened it. 

But, before she had spoken a single word, the 
sound of a footstep in the hall made her jump up 
and seat herself in a nearby chair with her book, 
and none too soon, for the curtains parted and a 
venerable, grey-bearded old gentleman looked in. 


88 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 

“Won't you come in?” said Rosaleen, while Nick 
got up. 

The old gentleman advanced and held out his 
hand to Nick with a scholarly sort of smile. 

“Good evening, sir!’ he said. “I was sorry not 
to have welcomed you with somewhat greater cor- 
diality when you first came in, but I was hard at 
my work.” 

“Not at all!” Nick murmured. 

“And that sort of work makes its demands, I can 
tell you! They who know not speak lightly of 
‘writing,’ as of a pleasant diversion; but we initi- 
ated ones. . . .! The evening is the only time that 
I can confidently claim as my own, so you will 
understand that I dare not waste a moment of the 
Muse’s presence.” 

Which, considering that the poor old chap had 
acquired all his scholarship alone and unaided, and 
after he was more or less mature, was a creditable 
speech. But young Landry, not knowing the cir- 
cumstances, was not impressed. He said, “Cer- 
tainly!” 

“I suppose Rosaleen has told you something of 
my literary labours?” he enquired, “A romance of 
the time of Nero. A poor thing, I dare say, but 
mine own. And, whether or not it takes the public 


THE BETRAYAL 89 


fancy, it has at least served to beguile many weary 
hours for its creator.” 

This was out of his preface; a bit he was very 
fond of. 

“TI don’t know whether you are a student of his- 
tory, sir,” the old gentleman went on. “But if the 
subject interests you at all, J have some exceedingly 
interesting pictures—views of the Holy Land, which 
I should be very pleased to show you.” 

“Thank you very much,” said Nick. ‘I should 
like to see them—some time. But Im afraid I 
can’t wait now... .” 

The scholar shook his head. 

“My dear sir,” he said, smiling. “I certainly did 
not propose to begin so extensive an undertaking at 
the present hour. It would take you half a day 
to assimilate the material I have on hand. I thought 
only to introduce you to the subject, to give you—as 
one might say—a glimpse of the glories to come.” 

He crossed the room and picked up the very 
book Rosaleen had laid down. 

“This is our starting point,” he said. “It is from 
this quaint little old world village that my very 
dear friend, the Reverend Nathan Peters, set out 
on his remarkable trip. The record of that trip 
may be found in his book ‘Following the Old Trail.’ 
The written record, that is. The pictorial record 


90 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


—which I think I may venture to call the most 
uniquely interesting and fascinating thing of its sort 
now in existence—he entrusted to me, and it forms 
the basis of this collection of photographs, original 
drawings, and paintings.” 

Nick could not get away. He was obliged once 
more to seat himself on the sofa, this time beside a 
bearded old gentleman, and to look and listen for 
an interminable time. He had to watch desperately 
for a moment to escape, and he had to go without a 
word to Rosaleen, except a formal ‘‘good-evening.” 
The uncle accompanied him to the front door, even 
to the top of the stairs, to invite him cordially to 
come again. 


IV 


OutTsIpE in the street he stopped to light a ciga- 
rette. And to sigh with relief. What an evening! 
And still was happy, very happy, because Rosa-— 
leen was so respectable. 


CHAPTER SIX 
I 


From the midst of entrancing dreams Rosaleen 
was awakened the next morning by a most unwel- 
come voice, and she opened her eyes to find Miss 
Amy sitting on the edge of her bed. She had been 
asleep when Miss Amy came in the night before, 
but she had never expected, never even hoped that 
she would be able to avoid a dreadful cross-exami- 
nation. And here it was beginning. 

“Mr. Morton tells me you had a young man in 


b 


here last evening,” she was saying. “I should like 
you to explain it. Who was he?” 

Rosaleen, terribly at a disadvantage, thus lying 
flat in bed, dishevelled and surprised, answered that 
he was a friend of Miss Waters. 

“Why did he come here?” 

“J—he said he wanted to call... 

“And you gave him this permission without con- 


bP) 


sulting me?” 
“T didn’t think you’d mind i 
“T do mind, Rosaleen. J mind very much. It 


was something you had no right to do.” 
91 


92 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


b] 


“T won’t again,” said Rosaleen. 

“T should hope not. Who was he?” 

“A friend of Miss Waters.” 

“What was his name?” 

“Mr. Landry.” 

‘“‘What is he? What does he do? Where does 
he live?” 

“T don’t know.” 

Miss Amy got up. 

“T shall telephone to Miss Waters and ask her.” 

“No!” said Rosaleen. | “Dong h ease. ee 
[ll never let him come again . . .” 

“That makes no difference. It’s my duty to know 
what sort of young men you're asking into this 
house. I shall certainly ask Miss Waters for a little 
further information.” 

“She won’t know!” cried Rosaleen. ‘‘He—she 


doesn’t know him very well. . . . He just hap- 
pened to drop in at her studio one day. . . .” 
“Why ?” 


33 


“To 'see about/a pictures yg 
“Ts he an artist?” 

““I—don’t think so.” 

“How often have you seen him?” 

“Oh! ... I don’t know—exactly. ... 
She sat up suddenly. 


39 


THE BETRAYAL 93 


“Won't it satisfy you if I never have him here 
again?’ she cried. “Or anybody else, ever?’ 

“No. J want you to have him here again. I 
want to see him.” 

Rosaleen looked at that impassive wolfish face, at 
those black eyes scrutinizing her behind their eye- 
glasses, and a profound distrust came over her. In 
that instant, for the first time, she questioned the 
motives of her benefactress; she doubted her good- 
ness. Instead of duty in her glance, she saw malice. 
Never, never, if she could possibly help it, should 
Miss Amy and Nick Landry come face to face. 

She relapsed into what Miss Amy called a “sullen 
silence,” but which was in reality only a desperate 
silence. There sat that woman on her bed, formu- 
lating God knows what plans against her. She was 
so helpless! She lay back on her pillow, as if she 
were bound hand and foot, her soft hair spread 
- about her, her face stony with despair, the very 
picture of a maiden victim. 

“I am sorry you forgot yourself to such an ex- 
tent,’ observed Miss Amy, and rose. “Get up now 
and dress; it’s late.” 

Rosaleen sprang out of bed. 

“What can I possibly tell him?” she cried to her- 
self. ‘He'll want to come again, of course... . 
What can I tell him?” 


94 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


She looked for him at Miss Waters’ studio the 
next afternoon, looked for him with vehement long- 
ing. She was in such terror that he would go to 
the flat again and be met there by Miss Amy. If 
she had known where he lived, she would have writ- 
ten to him, to entreat him not to do so. But that 
course blocked, she could do nothing but hope and 
hope that he would instead come to the studio, where 
she could tell him. . . . She didn’t care what she 
told him, what monstrous thing she invented, if only 
she kept him away. | 

He didn’t come. She flagrantly neglected her 
work. Leaning back against the wall, arms clasped 
behind her head, she gossiped with Miss Waters. 
And Miss Waters, stifling a feeling of guilt at thus 
not earning her money, gave herself without re- 
straint to this illicit, this joyful chatter. For Rosa- 
leen was joyful, in spite of her great anxiety, her 
dread of losing her Nicholas. Even if she lost him 
now, she would have the happiness of knowing that 
one man at least had looked upon her with tender- 
ness and delight. 

Miss Waters talked about Brussels and Paris, of 
course, and to-day, with new boldness, began to 
speak of Love. Hitherto she had never mentioned 
this topic, but now that Rosaleen had a young man, 
she felt she might consider her altogether mature, 


THE BETRAYAL 95 


initiated, so to speak. So she told a long and thrill- 
ing story of an artist—a very poor young artist— 
who had fallen in love with a wealthy young girl 
of good family. And how cruel she was to him. It 
was difficult to understand why they had so eagerly 
desired these meetings which Miss Waters feelingly 
described, for apparently she had come to the ren- 
dezvous only to be cruel, and he only to weep and 
to suffer. By and by she had married a distinguished 
man, and the young artist began, with true French 
propriety, to die of consumption. Then the lady, 
not to be outdone, began to suffer too; the anguish 
of remorse. She compromised her name by visiting 
his studio as he lay dying, and her life was ruined. 
It was awfully long, but to Miss Waters intensely 
interesting, because she had actually seen the people 
with her own eyes. 

A little earlier than usual Rosaleen went home, to 
find Miss Amy there, reading, and coldly suspicious. 

“She thinks ve met him,” she thought. “Don’t 
I wish I had!” | 

A joyful sense of her own freedom came over her; 
no one could really stop her, no one could restrain 
her. She would see him! All the suspicious, mid- 
dle-aged spinsters on earth couldn’t stop her! She 
was more subtle, more daring, she was stronger than 
Miss Amy! 


96 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


And yet she passed the evening in dread—terri- 
fied that she might hear the door bell ring, and that 
it might be Nick. 


II 


Ir was the custom in their household for Mr. 
Humbert when he went down stairs every morning, 
to look in the mail box, and if there were anything 
of interest there, to ring the bell three times, as a 
signal for Rosaleen to come running down. If there 
were nothing but cards from laundries and carpet 
cleaners, and so on, he didn’t ring. 

But on the next morning, to the astonishment of 
Rosaleen, he came back, up the four flights of stairs 
again, with the mail in his hand. And without a 
word, gave it to his sister. She showed no surprise; 
it was evidently prearranged between them. 

Rosaleen stood by, waiting. But Mr. Humbert 
turned away and the door was closed after him. 
And Miss Amy walked off to her own room with 
the letters. 

Rosaleen, left alone in the dark passage, clenched 
her hands. She knew, she was certain that one of 
those letters was for her. But dared not ask. She 
thought that she might be able to steal it; she waited 
for a chance to enter Miss Amy’s room, and there in 
the waste paper basket she saw the torn fragments 


THE BETRAYAL 97 


of an envelope. With her meek air she went about 
her work; Miss Amy really fancied that she sus- 
pected nothing. But the moment Miss Amy had 
gone out to market, she ran into the room and emp- 
tied the waste paper basket on to the floor, and, on 
her hands and knees, began to piece the envelope 
together. It was! Miss Rosaleen Humbert! But 
there was not a trace of the letter which must have 
been in it. 

A dreadful resentment possessed her. She hated 
Miss Amy. As she sat sewing through the inter- 
minable evening, her anger almost stifled her. This 
woman had cheated and defrauded her. She had 
stolen her very life! And she was absolutely at her 
mercy, absolutely helpless. She couldn’t even ex- 
plain to Nick. He would think of course that she 
had got his letter; he would see that she didn’t 
answer it. Perhaps he had suggested another meet- 
ing, perhaps he would go to wait for her somewhere, 
Oertand wait, in vain. .. . 

That thought made her desperate. She thought 
for a moment of boldly confronting Miss Amy, but 
she very soon relinquished the idea. It couldn’t do 
any good, and it might do harm. No! She would 
have to try some other way. 

The lamplight shone on her smooth head, bent 
over her work, her profile turned to Miss Amy had 


98 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


the guileless sweetness and carelessness of a child. 
. . . And Miss Amy was consumed with anger—an 
anger a hundred times fiercer than Rosaleen’s. She 
pretended to be reading, but the hands that held the 
magazine trembled, and she never turned a page. 
Rage, scorn, a hatred which she could not compre- 
hend, filled her at the sight of this false maiden, this 
treacherous creature who dared stretch out her hand 
after the thing which life had withheld from the 
older woman. And suddenly, with shocking cold- 
ness, she burst forth: 

“Did you tell that man I was your cousin?” 

Rosaleen looked up, pale with fright. She waited 
a moment. 

“T said—TI only said—a sort of cousin. .. . 

“You let him think that you—were something 
that you are not?” 

She was silent. 

‘“‘When he came here, did he know your position 
in this household?” 

SNotiexactiyiiien 


9 


33 


Miss Amy smiled. 

“T thought not. Now, Rosaleen, I want you to 
listen to me. JI knew this would happen. I warned 
poor dear Miss Julie of it. I ¢o/d her that when you 
were grown, these—complications were sure to Oc- 
cur. I could see that you were going to be that sort 


THE BETRAYAL 99 


of a girl, frivolous and silly—misled by flattery.’ 
She had to stop for a moment, to choke down the 
words on the tip of her tongue, terms of contempt 
for Rosaleen which common sense told her had not 
yet been deserved. Then she went on: 

“I shan’t try to prevent you from seeing—young 
men. It’s none of my business. But I won’t have 
any deceit about it. Anyone who’s interested in you 
has a right to know who you are and what you are.” 

With a mighty effort Rosaleen concealed every 
trace of emotion. She looked up with an impatient 
sigh. 

“But, Miss Amy, I can’t be telling all about my- 
self to everyone I meet. I don’t expect to see him 
—that man—again. [ just didn’t bother.” | 

“That’s not true!” said Miss Amy. “I may as 
well tell you that a letter came from him this morn- 
ing, in which he mentioned that you ‘unfortunately 
had no chance to arrange another meeting.’ Now I 
want you to tell me all about this affair.” 

“Nothing to tell!” said Rosaleen, airily. “I met 
him, and he asked if he could come to see me, and I 
said yes. I’m sorry I did it. I never will again.” 

Miss Amy took up the magazine again. Intoler- 
able to sit in the room with this girl! She wished 
she had the courage to send her to the kitchen where 
she belonged. 


100 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


The clock struck nine and Rosaleen got up. 

“TI think Pll go to bed,” she said. ‘“Good-night, 
Miss Amy!” | 

Miss Amy answered without looking up. 

But when Rosaleen had got into bed and turned 
out the light, she entered her room without knocking, 
with that calm authority that at once intimidated 
and enraged the young girl. And sat down heavily 
on the cot, making it creak. 

‘“Rosaleen,” she said. ‘As long as you can’t be 
trusted to act honourably of your own accord, I shall 
have to do so for you. I am going to write to the 
young man and tell him your history.” 

Rosaleen gave a little shriek. 

“Oh, no!” she cried. “Ohno! You couldn’t be 
so cruel and horrible!” 

Miss Amy was a little alarmed at the emotion she 
had aroused. She hesitated. 

“Then will you tell him yourself?” 

“Yes!” Rosaleen said: ““!Yeseeeieie 

Miss Amy sat there, a dim bulk in the darkness. 

“T shall write to him,” she said slowly, ‘‘and ask 
him to come here, and you can tell him. Tell him 
what you should have told him in the beginning.” 

The next morning when Rosaleen was dressed and 
ready to go out, Miss Amy handed her a letter. 


THE BETRAYAL 101 


“You may see it, if you like,” she said. 
But what Rosaleen looked at was the address; 
one glance stamped it on her mind. 


III 


Wuewn Landry came down to breakfast the next 
morning there were two letters lying by his plate. 
He concealed his great anxiety to open them; he sat 
down and asked his aunt how she had passed the 
night. She made a point of coming down to take 
breakfast with’ him, although it was rather hard for 
her to be about so early. But she adored the boy, 
and his affectionate politeness more than compen- 
sated her. 

She said thank you, she had slept very well. 

“Do you mind?” said Nicholas, picking up his 
letters. | 

“Of cou’se not!” she answered, and he opened 
the first. 

Miss Amy Humbert would be pleased to see him 
on Wednesday evening between eight and nine. 
The old fashioned formality made him smile, but it 
pleased him, it pleased him very much. It was one 
step nearer to his Rosaleen. Then he opened the 
other. 

His aunt noticed that he had stopped eating. He 


102 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


sat staring at his plate, lost in thought, frowning. 
Then he looked up stealthily at her, and she endured 
his critical regard with calmness. And he evidently 
decided at last that she was to be trusted, for he got 
up and brought his two letters to her. 

She read the invitation with a smile; then she 
looked at the other, scratched, scrawled on a piece 
of cheap paper in a stamped envelope. 


“Dear Mr. Landry: 

“Please don’t come on Wednesday. Please don’t 
ever come. If you will come to Miss Waters’ studio 
this afternoon I will explain. But please do not 
write, because I do not get the letters.” 


And it was signed simply “R.” 

“And I can’t go to Miss Waters’!” he cried. “I 
can’t possibly ask for an afternoon off the very first 
week of this new job!” 

‘Who is ‘R’?” asked his aunt, gently. 

“Rosaleen. What do you make of this, Aunt 
Emmie 2’ | 

“My dearest boy, Ah don’t know anything about 
it at all, remember! Can’t you tell me something 
about her?” 

“T don’t know much about her. But—I’m in- 
terested in her. I—LI like her.” 

“But what sort of people are they?” 


_. what you can do, Aunt Emmy: 


THE BETRAYAL 103 


“Oh, fairly decent! Respectable, quiet sort of 
people, as far as I can see. She’s an orphan—lives 
with her uncle and cousin. She’s studying art.” 

All this sounded reassuring to his aunt. The first 
shock was over, and she began to feel pity for his 
trouble. He was so agitated, walking up and down 
the room, with his sulky, boyish scowl. 

“Good Lord! What a situation!” he cried. ‘She. 
asks me not to come and not to write—and they have 
no telephone. And she asks me to meet her, so that 
she can explain, and I’m not able to go. And she 
may be in trouble of some sort. I think it’s very 
likely.” 

“Shall Ah go there for you this afternoon, and 
explain?” | 

“No!” said Nick. But he stopped short, and 
braced himself for an argument. “But [ll tell you 


192 


CHAPTER SEVEN 
I 


RosALEEN came home from Miss Waters’ that 
afternoon terribly dispirited. He hadn’t come! 

The afternoons were growing very short now. 
The flat was altogether dark when she let herself in, 
and she went from room to room, to light the gas 
jets and turn them very low. First in the long hall, 
then in Mr. Humbert’s room, with its flat top desk 
“covered with papers and its severe orderliness, then 
in Miss Amy’s room, where, in the mirror over the 
bureau, she caught a glimpse of herself, still in her 
hat and jacket, looking oddly blurred and misty in 
the dim light. Somehow that image frightened her; 
she hurried into the dining room, her own little cell, 
and at last, with relief, into the kitchen. Never had 
the rambling old place seemed so large and so 
gloomy, or herself so desolate. 

She put on her big apron and set to work prepar- 
ing the supper, a shocking meal of fried steak, fried 
potatoes, coffee, a tin of tomatoes left unaltered in 


their watery insipidity, and a flabby little lemon pie 
104 


THE BETRAYAL 105 


from the baker’s. She was nervous; she fancied she 
heard sounds from all those silent dimly lighted 
rooms behind her. She started when a paper bag on 
the table rattled stiffly all by itself. She was, for 
once, glad to hear the sound of a key in the lock and 
- Miss Amy’s heavy tread coming down the hall. 
' She had been to the library; she was carrying four 
big volumes which she flung down on the dining 
room couch. Then she looked into the kitchen. 

“Mmmm! ‘The coffee smells good!” she. said, 
affably, and went off to her own room. She never 
offered any assistance, even to setting the table. She 
considered all that to be Rosaleen’s affair. Nor did 
she notice that the child looked tired and pale and 
dejected. 

Nor did she notice that Rosaleen ate almost noth- 
ing. They had, all three of them, very small appe- 
tites, which, when added to their highly unappetiz- 
ing meals, made life very economical. Moreover, 
she considered it meritorious to eat very little, and 
not to enjoy what you did eat. 

They finished. Mr. Humbert rose, el very 
pleasantly, “Ah . .. ! and went off to his writing. 
Miss Amy sat down on the couch to look over her 
library books, and Rosaleen, putting on her apron 
again, began carrying out the dishes. She was slow 
that evening; she didn’t want to finish. 


106 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


“Tf I only had a place where I could go and sit by 
myself!’ she thought, not for the first time. “T 
don’t want to go and sit there with her! And if I 
go in my own room, she’ll be after*me, to see what’s 
the matter.” 

She sat down in the kitchen and began to polish a 
copper tea kettle which was never used. 

Suddenly the door bell rang. She jumped up, 
pressed the button which opened the down stairs 
door, and hurried along the passage. But Miss Amy 
was before her, and stood squarely in the doorway. 

In a dream, a nightmare, Rosaleen heard Nick’s 
voice: | 

“Miss Humbert?’ he asked, politely. 

“T am Miss Humbert!” 

“May we see Miss Rosaleen Humbert?” 

‘‘There’s no such person,” said Miss Amy. 

There was a pause. Then another voice, a femi- 
nine one, soft, agreeable, but unmistakably rebuk- 
ing, said, 

“Ah am Mrs. Allanby, Mr. Landry’s aunt.” 

“Ah!” said Miss Amy. 

“Ma nephew was afraid that perhaps you might 
not have liked his calling’on your cousin: 

“Rosaleen is not my cousin,’ said Miss Amy, 
contemptuously. 

Mrs. Allanby was just beginning to speak, when 


THE BETRAYAL 107 


Nick broke in. He couldn’t keep his temper any 
longer. The spectacle of his beloved and dignified 
aunt standing outside the door, and being spoken to 
so outrageously by this woman both shocked and 
infuriated him. 

“Will you kindly ask Miss Rosaleen to step here 

for a minute?” he said. ‘We won’t trouble you 
long!” , 
His air of disgust, of superiority, stung the un- 
happy woman to still worse behaviour. She could 
not stop; she took a sort of monstrous delight in 
going on, in defying the warnings of her conscience 
and her pride. 

“Evidently you don’t understand,” she said. 
“You seem to think the girl is a relative. She isn’t. 
My sister found her posing for a class of art stu- 
dents, and she felt sorry for her and brought her 
home. My sister was very good to her, and for her 
sake I’ve gone on feeding and clothing her. She 
does a little light work round the place, to pay for 
Mee wetp. -..- 

Suddenly all her annoyance, her years of irrita- 
tion with Rosaleen, her ill-temper kept under such 
iron control, all the suffering she had endured from 
this false calm, this false pleasantness, this inhuman 
repression of her natural self, burst forth. 

“T’m sick and ¢éred of it!” she cried. “Such non- 


108;ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


sense! The girl, with her airs and graces). a 
Just a common, low Irish girl. . . . She’s had ad- 
vantages I never had in my young days... . I’m 
sick and tired of it! It’s the final straw, for her to 
be asking company here. . . . I won’t have it! It’s 
my home, after all, and there’s no place in it where 
she can entertain!” 

They were all silent, aghast at her violence, her 
coarse cruelty. Her voice was loud, so loud as to 
arouse Mr. Humbert from his work. He thrust his 
venerable head out of his door, but instantly popped 
it in again. Miss Amy, horrified at herself, trem- 
bling with rage, ready to burst into tears, cried out, 
suddenly 

“You can just take them into the kitchen!” 

And stood aside, pointing down the passage. 

“Come along, Aunt Emmie!”’ said Nick. ‘Come 


3? 


away before I 

But she had entered, and was going along the pas- 
sage. Rosaleen went before her into the kitchen, 
drew forward the one chair, and dragged another in 
from the dining room. Mrs. Allanby, gracious and 
kind, sat down, and smiled at Rosaleen. 

“Come and sit down beside me!”’ she said. 

Rosaleen shook her head. Mrs. Allanby spoke 
again, she thought she even heard Nick’s voice, but 
she couldn’t understand them. They sounded very, 


THE BETRAYAL 109 


very faint. She was dizzy, sick, her ears were ring- 
ing. She stood leaning against the tubs, still in her 
gingham apron, staring at them 
At that charming and beautifully dressed woman, 
at the scowling young man standing behind her, 
proud as Lucifer, in the ktchen. . . . 
She flung her arm across her eyes. 


19 19 


“Go away!” she cried. ‘Go away! 


II 


SHE didn’t really know when they had gone. She 
stood without moving, without hearing or seeing for 
a long time. Then suddenly the turmoil within her 
died down and she felt perfectly calm. 

She went into her own room and began packing 
her clothes into a little wicker suitcase, quite care- 
fully and neatly. She hadn’t even troubled to close 
the door, and inevitably Miss Amy came in. 

“What are you doing?” she asked. 

“Tm going away,” said Rosaleen. 

“What nonsense! At this time of night! I won’t 
allow it!” 

“You can’t stop me,” said Rosaleen. 

Miss Amy was frightened, unspeakably dismayed 
at what she had done. 

“Don’t be silly!’ she said. ‘Let bygones be by- 


110 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


gones. I—TI’m sorry, Rosaleen. Let’s forget all 
about it. Get to bed now, like a good girl!” 

Rosaleen shook her head. 

“No!” she said, ‘I’ve got to go.” 

“You wicked girl! Think of all we’ve done for 
you!” said Miss Amy, in despair. 
hIVdonet care. 


Pd 


said Rosaleen. 
“T won’t let you .take that suitcase, then. It’s 


mine.” 
Instantly Rosaleen began taking her things out 
of it. . 


“Tll wrap them in a newspaper,” she said. 

Miss Amy stood there threatening, entreating, ar- 
guing, but Rosaleen was like a stone. She did wrap 
her things in a newspaper; then she put on her hat 
and coat and went out into the passage. Miss Amy 
stood with her back against the front door. 

“IT won’t let you!” she cried. ‘Where would you 
go—all alone—at this time of night!” 

A horrible fear had risen in her mind. If Rosa- 
leen ‘‘went wrong,” she would be responsible. She 
didn’t much care what else happened to her, as long 
as that was avoided. But she couldn’t have that on 
her conscience. 

“Morton!” she cried, desperately. ‘‘Morton! 
Come out and speak to this wicked, headstrong 
Peay 


THE BETRAYAL iy 


No earthly power could have brought the author 
into this. He didn’t even answer. He got up from 
his desk and slipped across the room, and very quiet- 
ly locked the door. 

“T won’t let you out!” cried Miss Amy. 

“Tl stand here till you do!” said Rosaleen 
firmly. 


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A long time went by. Miss Amy had grown weary 
beyond endurance. And there stood Rosaleen, lean- 
ing against the wall, with her newspaper package 
under her arm, pallid, solemn, unconquerable. 

Suddenly Miss Amy began to cry. 

“Very well, you miserable, heartless girl!’ she 
sobbed. “Go, then, if you w//!”’ 

Rosaleen went by her, out of the door, and down 
the stairs. And never again did Miss Amy set eyes 
on her in this world. 


BOOK TWO: AMONG THE ARTISTS 


CHAPTER ONE 
I 


SHE felt, really and actually, like a new person, 
and she looked like one, too. She was walking down 
Sixth Avenue, after an interview with the fashion 
editor of a big magazine who had said that neither 
now nor at any possible future time would he use 
any of her work. It was a sharp November day, 
and she was still wearing a thin suit, in the pocket 
of which lay a fifty-cent piece, borrowed from Miss 
Waters, all the money she had in the world. And 
still she was happy, profoundly happy. She walked 
briskly, staring candidly at whatever interested her, 
no longer trying to be ladylike, and feeling herself 
for the first time in her life an independent per- 
sonality, not obliged to please anyone. And she 
was going home to a place where she was welcome, 
where she was encouraged and admired—in short, to 
Miss Waters’ flat. 

Miss Waters had taken her in on that terrible 

113 


114 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


evening without asking for a word of explanation. 
She had simply kissed her and suggested going to 
bed, and when Rosaleen was lying beside her in the 
dark, both of them fiercely wide awake, she said not 
a word, never put a question. The next morning she 
had got up early and made coffee and toast and 
brought it to Rosaleen as she lay in bed. At last 
she had heard the story and she was horrified. She 
quite agreed that Rosaleen had done well to leave 
Miss Amy, but being old and more cruelly schooled 
in the world’s ways, she had seen how much the girl 
was losing. A home, a roof over one’s head, and 
food and clothing—she knew the cost of these in 
money and in effort. She had gone, on her own 
initiative, to see Miss Amy, to see if she could not 
rescue something for her lamb. She never men- 
tioned that interview to Rosaleen, and she had tried 
to forget it as soon as possible. It was a humiliating 
and complete failure; the European Art Teacher had 
had very much the worst of it. 

She had then devoted herself to heartening this 
dejected and sorrowful young creature, and with 
amazing results. Rosaleen was now convinced that 
the world lay before her, to be conquered by her 
brush. Freedom from criticism and hostility trans- 
formed her.. Miss Waters suggested various places 
where she might look for ‘“‘art work,” and she went 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 115 


to them without timidity, was never discouraged 
by refusals. She knew that Miss Waters was glad 
to have her there as long as she wished to stay, and 
whatever expense she caused she expected to repay 
before long. Cheerful and pleasant days, these 
were. When she wasn’t out hunting jobs, she was 
with Miss Waters, drawing or helping her in her 
very easy-going and muddled housekeeping. In the 
evening they had dinner at little Italian table 
d’hotes, they went to “movies,” or they worked at 
home together. Rasaleen made dress designs to 
show as samples of her ability, things so spirited 
and attractive that Miss Waters was surprised. | 

“I never knew you were so gifted, my dear,” she 
said. “I knew—I a/ways knew you had talent, but. 
I didn’t know you were so practical.” } 

There was something else that surprised Miss 
Waters. She couldn’t comprehend how Rosaleen 
could be so cheerful, after what had happened. But 
the part of Rosaleen’s brain which was concerned 
with Nick Landry was shut, was sealed. She was 
dimly aware that some day she would have to open 
that door, and examine and comprehend what lay 
behind it. She knew that Grief was shut in there, 
and frightful Disappointment. Knew too that 
through that locked compartment lay the way to. 


116 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


her heaven. But she turned aside her head. She 
went another road. 

Cheerful and lively, her cheeks rosy with the win- 
ter air, she hurried through the twilit street, up the 
steps of Miss Waters’ old-fashioned house, and rang 
the bell. She waited a long time for an answer: she 
rang again, and still must wait. The flat was on 
the first floor; standing on the stoop she tried to peer 
in at the front window, but, unaccountably, the 
shade was pulled down. She rang once more, almost 
without hope, sure that Miss Waters must have gone 
out for a few moments; but this time the door 
clicked violently, and she entered. Miss Waters 
was standing at her own front door; she was dressed 
in a black lace tea gown, with a black jet butterfly 
in her fluffy white hair; she looked strangely elegant 
and exalted. And in a voice trembling with excite- 
ment, she seized Rosaleen’s hands. 

“Many happy returns of the day!” she cried. 

“Oh! It was sweet of you to remember it was 
my birthday!” said Rosaleen, touched almost to 
tears by the festive dress. 

Miss Waters gently pulled her inside the door. 

“Now!” she said. 

And if she hadn’t a surprise party for Rosaleen! 

The shades were all down, the curtains drawn, 
and candles lighted in the dusty, untidy little sit- 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 117 


ting room, and it had somehow a mysterious and 
fascinating atmosphere. It seemed quite crowded 
with people too, and when she entered they all came 
forward. There was only one whom she knew at 
all; Miss Mell, a stout girl in spectacles, who had 
been Miss Waters’ first pupil, years ago. She came 
with commendable regularity to visit her old teacher 
every two or three weeks, and Rosaleen had more 
than once seen her in the studio, sitting quite still 
and listening to Miss Waters’ talking, a kindly and 
amused smile on her face. Then there was a des- 
perately lively girl who ran a tea room, and two 
agreeable young English women, and a disagreeable, 
sneering old gentleman with a goatee, whose name 
she never learned, nor whose business there. And 
an arrogant, handsome girl with a violin, who played 
something for them. 

Assisted by Miss Mell, Miss Waters served them 
all with cake and wine and sandwiches, and then. 
brought forth cigarettes, for the conversation which 
she expected to enjoy. | 

“They're all people who do things!” she whis- 
pered to Rosaleen. 

They all conscientiously endeavoured to behave 
like a party of artists, to smoke and to talk about 
“interesting” things. And they created a very fair 
illusion. At any rate, it made Miss Waters happy. 


118 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


Miss Mell was very friendly, so friendly that 
Rosaleen couldn’t help thinking Miss Waters must 
have told her her history. 

“We're just setting up as artists,’ she said, sit~ 
ting down beside Rosaleen. (They were the only 
ones not smoking.) ‘‘We’ve taken a studio on the 
south side of the Square, Bainbridge and J. We’re 
moving in to-morrow. And we want someone else 
to go in with us, to share a third of the expense. 
It'll amount to about twenty dollars a month, a 
third of the rent, and the gas and telephone, and so 
on. And I wondered if you'd like to come in with 
us?” 

“TI should!” said Rosaleen. ‘But I couldn’t. I 
couldn’t afford it. I haven’t got on my feet yet.” 

“We intend to work, you know. Hard! And I 
might be able to help you. Fashions, isn’t it? I 
know a lot of the people—editors and soon. I wish 
you would!” 

“But—I haven’t a cent!” said Rosaleen. ‘Noth- 
ing at all. If I can find a job——” | 

“In an office? It’s a pity to do that, if your 
work’s any good. You have no time left for any- 
thing else, and you can’t get ahead. If you work 
hard, and once get a decent start, you can do far 
better as a free lance.” 

“I know it!” said Rosaleen. “But you’ve got to 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 119 


be able to live while you’re getting a start, and 
I 33 


But the handsome and arrogant young woman had 


begun to play her violin again, and everyone became 
silent. It was music which had little to say to Rosa- 
leen; it was austere brain music; but she was en- 
chanted to watch the musician, the exquisite move- 
ment of her right arm and wrist, the delicate inter- 
play of the fingers of her left hand, the faint, fleet- 
ing shadows that crossed her proud, fine face. She 
was, Rosaleen thought, very like a picture Miss Amy 
had of Marie Antoinette riding in the tumbrill. 

The piece was ended, and they all applauded. 

“That’s Bainbridge,” Miss Mell explained. “My 
pal, the one who has the studio with me. She’s 
absolutely a genius.” 

Rosaleen regarded her with undisguised admira- 
tion. 

“I wish I could come with you!” she said, re- 
gretfully. 


II 


Miss Mert and Miss Bainbridge were in that 
state of exhaustion in which any sort of rest or pause 
is fatal. They had agreed to go on working until 
they were really “settled,” with everything unpacked 


120 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


and neat. Enthusiasm had entirely gone now; they 
were working doggedly, and, secretly, without much 
hope of ever being done. Miss Bainbridge was on 
her knees before a packing case filled with papers, 
drawings, music, and that mass of letters, bills, and 
receipts one feels obliged to keep. Miss Mell was 
feebly cleaning out the hearth, which was quit full 
of the debris of the former tenants. 

There was a knock at the door, and they both 
called out, “Come in!” but without interest. 

It was Miss Waters and Rosaleen. Miss Waters 
beckoned mysteriously to Miss Mell, and they van- 
ished into the back room. 

“Have you got your third person for the studio 
yet?’ Miss Waters enquired, anxiously. 

Miss Mell shook her head. 

“Then you can have Rosaleen!” cried Miss Wa- 
ters, with triumph. “I’m so glad, for your sake, 
and for her sake. It’s an zdeal arrangement!” 

And, seeing that Miss Mell looked only polite 
and not enthusiastic, she went on: 

“You will just love that child! She has the dis- 
position of an angel. Never a cross or disagreeable 
word. And after all she’s been through!” 

“Yes,” said Miss Mell. “She seems very nice. 
We'll be glad to have her.” 

“You see,” Miss Waters went on, in a whisper. 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 121 


“Yesterday, not an hour after you'd left the house, 
a letter came for her from that beastly woman I told 
you about—that Amy Humbert. And in it, my 
dear, was a cheque for five hundred dollars. It 
seems that the zzce sister had told her on her death- 
bed to give that to Rosaleen when she was twenty- 
one. She wrote—this Amy woman, I mean—that 
she wasn’t legally obliged to give it to Rosaleen, but 
that she felt it was a moral obligation, and that she 
always tried to do what was right, and more like 
that. You know the sort of person, Dodo! Well! 
. . . The poor child was wild with joy. . . . And 
I advised her to come with you, if it could be done. 
Five hundred dollars will keep her for a long time, 
if she’s careful, and she ought to be earning a good 
living long before it’s gone. Don’t you think so?’ 

“Yes, I should think so,” said Miss Mell, thought- 
fully. 

“Then Ill tell her!’ said Miss Waters, and has- 
tened into the big room, where Rosaleen stood, look- 
ing sheepishly about her. Miss Bainbridge had dis- 
couraged her attempts at conversation with no great 
gentleness and the chairs were all filled with things, 
so that she couldn’t even sit down. 

“Tt’s all right!” cried Miss Waters. “I am so 
glad!” 


122 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


‘Look round and see how you like it,” said Miss 
Mell, and they did. 

The place seemed to them the very ideal of a 
studio. It was a dark old room on the south side of 
the Square, thoroughly dirty and almost past clean- 
ing. There were plenty of mice and other more 
intolerable vermin, and a musty smell that no airing 
could banish. But, to compensate, more than to 
compensate, was the View, the Outlook, the sight of 
scrawny little Washington Square Park and a 
glimpse up Fifth Avenue through the Arch. Every 
visitor they ever had later on admired this view. 

It had just the right sort of furnishings, too, left 
intact by the two former girl artists who were sub- 
letting it. Big wicker chairs and little feeble tables, 
a rug, small, dingy and expensive, a screen, a bat- 
tered and stained drawing table, candles with 
“quaint” shades striped purple and yellow. And 
pieces of hammered brass which should have 
gleamed from corners but which did not gleam be- 
cause they were too dirty and the corners were so 
very dark that nothing within them was visible. The 
place had altogether an aimless air, a look of being 
one part work room and three parts play room; it 
was frivolous in a solemn, pretentious sort of way, 
neither pretty nor convenient. 

But to Rosaleen an enchanted spot, something 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 123 


which seemed to her more like home, dearer to her 
than any other place in the world. She loved it! 

“Td like to help,” she said. ‘What shall I do 
first ?” 

“The back room,” said Enid. ‘Otherwise we'll 
never get to bed to-night.” 

Rosaleen lifted the curtain and went into the 
back room where they were all to sleep and to do 
their cooking. A forlorn place, overrun with 
roaches, and containing two cots, a filthy gas stove, 
an old sink red with rust, and a dreadful mouldy 
little thing that had once been an ice-box. There 
was no window, no light except the gas high over- 
head. It was depressing, hideous, highly unwhole- 
some, with an air of abandoned domesticity terribly 
distressing to Rosaleen. She couldn’t endure the 
thought of food being prepared and cooked in that 
dark and dirty place. But the others didn’t care 
at all. 

They had got themselves some sort of lunch there 
before Rosaleen’s arrival; the greasy plates still 
stood by the sink. | 

“Tl make you some tea, 
grimy and back-breaking labour. 

She scrubbed out a rusty little kettle and set it on 
to boil; then she began to wash the dishes and to 
clean the cluttered, dusty shelf and to set out on it 


99 


she said, pitying their 


124 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


the provisions lying about in bags and boxes. She 
opened the little ice-box, devoid of ice and smelling 
most vilely, and saw in there a loaf of bread and an 
opened tin of milk. 

“I wouldn’t wse that ice-box if I were you!” she 
called out, anxiously. ‘It doesn’t seem—nice.” 

“All right!’ Miss Mell answered, soothingly. 

She made tea and brought it in on the lid of a 
box for a tray. But it was very poor, cheap tea and 
it smelt like straw. 

“T don’t think it’s a very good brand,” said Rosa- 
leen. ‘“‘Why don’t you try Noxey’s?” 

Miss Bainbridge looked up from her third cup. 

“Look here!” she said. ‘My idea is that you 
should do all that sort of thing. We can’t and 
won't. Mell, give her the money and let her buy 
everything. . . . And you'll see we always have 
everything we need, won’t you? Things for break- 
fast, and so on? Dinner I suppose we'll take out- 
side. I will, anyway. You'd better go out now, I 
think. First look and see what we need, coffee, rolls, 
all the proper things. And wood: it would be nice 
to start a fire here this evening. We didn’t know 
where to get any.” 

Rosaleen went, but she was not too well pleased 
with the tone of her new companion. And still less 
did she like her contemptuous indifference to Miss 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 125 


Waters, when she popped in later on to see if she 
could help. She was by nature resigned and patient, 
and her training had accentuated this; on her own 
behalf she would have endured a great deal from 
Miss Bainbridge. But she had a loyalty for her 
friends that was fanatical. Her heart had ached 
for her poor old friend, with her well-meaning 
sprightliness quashed. When she had gone, when 
she had called a quavering and gay “Au revoir!” 
from the foot of the stairs, Rosaleen had turned and 
resolutely faced the arrogant Miss Bainbridge. 

“I——_” she began. “‘I’ll ask you please—not to 
talk like-that to Miss Waters.” 

Her mouth was set grimly; she looked at that 
moment rather like her mother. 

“Why?” asked Miss Bainbridge, coolly. 

“She’s—she’s old, for one thing.” 

“Old enough to die. No, Miss-What’s-Your- 
Name, I can’t be sentimental about your rather aw- 
ful old friend. And we don’t want her bothering 
us here. The sooner she finds it out, the better. If 
you won’t give her a hint, I will.” 

“No,” said Rosaleen,” I won't. . . . And I won't 
let you.” 

“What!” cried Miss Bainbridge. ‘You won't let 
me? Is that what you said? How do you propose 
to stop me?” 


126 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


‘Well,” said Rosaleen. ‘JI—I suppose I can’t 
stop you. But I can go away and not hear you. 
And I will.” 

“Good-bye!” said Miss Bainbridge. 

Miss Mell intervened. 

“See here, Enid, my child, this won’t do! You 
mustn’t offend Rosaleen. Don’t be too much of a 
genius!” 

‘“‘There’s no reason for her to be offended. She’s 
not personally responsible for Miss Waters. Ive 
simply put my foot down about the old 


39 


imbecile 

“But the studio belongs to all three of us,” said 
Miss Mell. ‘And Rosaleen and I want Miss Wa- 
ters. It’s two against one.” 

Miss Bainbridge had got up and was looking at 
them with an ugly, narrowed glance. But Miss 
Mell continued her unpacking, and Rosaleen, in- — 
stead of quailing, met her look quite calmly. She 
couldn’t do much with them. ... 

She made a real effort to control that unbridled 
temper, to subdue that fierce pride that could endure 
no slightest contradiction. She saw, as she could 
always see, where her own best interest lay; that if 
she wished to get on with these comrades, she must 
make concessions. 

‘Very well,” she said. ‘Have her, if you want.” 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 127 


Rosaleen was not to be outdone in magnanimity. 

“I don’t want you to be bothered,” she said. “I'll 
try to keep her from interrupting your work the 
least bit. It’s only—if you please won’t be rude to 
her. . . . Because she’s really very nice.” 

“But can’t you see!”’ cried Miss Bainbridge, with 
a sort of despair. “I’m not like you. If I’m sur- 
rounded by mushy, stupid, jabbering people, it— 
harms me! If I were kind to people like that, ?'d 
ruin myself. You hear about people being killed 
with kindness. Well, a great many more people are 
killed—or destroyed—by being kind. No one who 
amounts to anything can be so damn kind. It’s often 
necessary to be cruel ; and it’s a/ways necessary to be 
indifferent. My job is to paint—to the very best of 
my ability. It doesn’t matter how Miss Waters 
feels. The world isn’t going to be oe better or 
any worse for her feelings.” 

Rosaleen reflected for some time. Then she 
spoke, thoughtfully and firmly: 

“TI guess Art isn’t as important as all that!” she 
said. 


CHAPTER TWO 
I 


THE next afternoon they were all settled peace- 
fully at work. They had agreed to give up the idea 
of getting all in order first; they had decided that 
they would do a little every day. 

Miss Mell was at work on an oil painting repre- 
senting a white tiled bathroom in which sat a hea- 
venly fair young mother undressing a baby on her 
lap, while near her were playing two misty, wistful 
little children in bathgowns. In the air, over their 
heads, was a huge tin of talcum powder, and beneath 
the picture were the words—“‘THAT COM’ FY, SILKY, 
CUDDLY FEELING WHICH ONLY FEATHERBLO POW- 
DER CAN GIVE.” 

It was an order; she had enough commissions 
ahead to keep her busy for months. She made it 
her business to suit her clients and their public; if 
she had any tastes of her own, she set them aside. 
She had good sense and shrewdness and no illusions 
of her own greatness. She wished to earn a living 


by drawing, because she was fond of it and did it 
128 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 129 


fairly well. She never used the word “Art,” never 
expressed an aesthetic opinion. The advertising 
agency for which she did most of her work con- 
sidered her in all things perfect and especially cre- 
ated to fill their wants. 

Miss Bainbridge was stippling the background of 
a little pen and ink sketch—a bizarre thing which 
she was going to try on a brand new art magazine. 
It was a woman, nude except for an immense black 
cloak sprinkled with white stars which floated from 
her shoulders. She stood alone on an immense stage 
with a background of black dots; and before and 
below her was a swimming sea of eyes. She called 
it “Failure.” 

Rosaleen too was working, but neither content- 
edly nor successfully. The more she saw of the 
others, the less she thought of herself. They worked 
with such industry, hour after hour. They didn’t 
seem to have the slightest trace of her fatal desire 
for distraction. After she had been drawing for an 
hour or so, she always became intolerably restless, 
so that even washing dishes was a relief... . By 
the side of Enid Bainbridge she felt as some poor 
little clergyman, struggling incessantly to feed and 
clothe his family, sick with cares and worries of this 
world, might feel by the side of Saint Paul. Enid 
worshipped her god with a single heart. Not for 


130 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


money, not for praise, not for any conceivable re- 
ward, would she do anything but her best. Even her 
ruthlessness, her selfishness, had in them something 
sublime. She was the priestess, sacrificing all things 
on her altar. Rosaleen, while disagreeing with her 
as to the relative importance of art in life, never- 
theless venerated her devotion. 

She wanted very much to ask their opinion of the 
design she had just made, but she didn’t venture to 
interrupt them. She regarded them covertly; Miss 
Mell in her gingham apron, with her calm, be- 
spectacled face cheerfully intent on her painting; — 
Enid Bainbridge bending over her drawing with 
desperate intensity. . . . She had beautiful hair, 
Rosaleen observed, and she knew how to dress it. 

She got up and crossed the room, very quietly, so 
as not to shake the floor, and sat down before the 
hearth to bait a mouse-trap. The place was over- 
run with mice; they had disturbed her ae the 
night before. 

And suddenly the industrious silence was broken 
by a tremendous knock at the door. 

“Come in'” called Miss Mell, in her cheerful, 
encouraging voice. 

The door opened, so widely that it slammed 
against the wall, and in walked an enormously fat 
man, with a swarthy face, an upturned mustache 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 131 


and a monocle dangling by a broad black ribbon. 
He was dressed with extreme care, with well-creased: 
trousers,.a fastidious necktie, and fawn-coloured 
spats; but the greater part of him was enveloped 
in a flowing grey linen smock. 

They all stared at him, astonished; he was so 
extraordinary.. He stared at them. 

“TI heard,” he said, “that there were three little 
female artists up here, and I came in to look them 
over, to see if they were pretty and interesting, or 
not. I live downstairs, my children, and my name 
is Lawrence Iverson.” 

“T’ve seen some of your work,” said Enid, care- 
lessly. “In the Kremoth Galleries. Rather good.” 

He looked critically at Enid, but she met his 
glance with one quite as cool and appraising. 

“Who are you?” he asked. ‘To call my work 
‘rather good’ ?” 

“No one much, just yet,’ she answered. 

He crossed the room and fixing his monocle, ex- 
amined her work. 

“Not even ‘rather good,’” he said. ‘“Clever— 
cheaply clever. Trick stuff—all in one dimension. 
Worthless.” 

“No, it isn’t,’ she contradicted. “It’s what I 
mean it to be, anyway. It expresses what I want it 
to. Now, a thing like that ‘Idols’ you did is what I 


132 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


call a failure. You had something you wanted to 
express, and you didn’t. It didn’t mean anything.” 

“My God! Young woman, I never mean any- 
thing. . . . But you're the perfect school marm 
‘doing art.’ You're concerned with ideas, because 
you have a brain, a little tiny one, but no soul. You 


don’t know what beauty is. What, you girl, does a 
tree mean’ What does a lovely arm mean? I give 


my pictures names because people won’t buy them 
without names. But the names are all damn non- 
sense, just to make the fools talk. For instance, I 
will conceive a group, of perfect, heart-breaking 
harmony, three figures in attitudes which form a 
complete and exquisite design. . . . You see that 
sort of thing once in a while, without forethought. 
I saw, the other day, a woman bending down from 
the top of a flight of steps to take a bag a grocer’s 
boy was reaching up to her. They made the most 
beautiful combination of curves God ever allowed. 
. . . Yow re not bad looking . . .” 

Enid paid no attention to this compliment. She 
frowned. 3 

““You’re wrong,” she said, after a while. “Tm 
not that sort—the school marm. . . . But you dd 
have an idea in that picture of yours. I think you 


wanted it to be ironic and terrible. And it wasn’t. 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 133 


It was only severe. You missed what you aimed at. 


bP) 


But I don’t care about ideas. . . 

“Keep quiet, sensitive, egotistic, female thing!” 
said Lawrence Iverson. ‘Why do you care what I 
think about you? I don’t care—I couldn’t possibly 
care—what you thought about me. Now to show 
you—what mood are you trying to get in your little 
picture there? Explain it! If it means something, 
what does it mean? Eh?” 

“Tt’s the sensation of an actress who knows she’s 
‘failing——” 

“Oh bosh! Oh rot! Oh stale, idiotic futility! 
So we have here the portrait of a sensation! Well, 
here is what you want.” 

He took Enid by the arm and pulled her to her 
feet; then he sat down on her chair and began to 
draw with her pen, in strong, fine, sure lines, the 
figure of a woman, in a strange attitude, half de- 
fiant, half cringing. 

“There’s your silly idea,” he said. ‘Without any 
black dots or white stripes. . . . You can’t draw. 
No woman can. But it’s pretty to see them try. I 
approve. I approve of you all. Even the trying 
will give you some faint comprehension of what I 
accomplish. But now, my dear little souls, put 
down your work and let us become acquainted!” 


134 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 
Il 


‘Wasn’t he awful?’ said Rosaleen, with a sigh 
of relief, when he had gone. 

“Oh, I don’t know!” said Miss Mell. “That’s 
only his way. He’s really a very well known ar- 
tist. . . . What are you laughing at, Enid?” 

“At him,” she answered. “And his babyishness. 
And his airs. Why, he’s crazy about women. You 
can see that. I'll have him eating out of my hand 
in a week or two.” 


III 


But the next morning when Miss Mell opened the 
door to put a bundle of rubbish out into the hall 
she found there a neat little package, and in it a 
sketch of Rosaleen standing with the mouse-trap in 
her hand, startled and puzzled. 

“To you!” he had written. ‘Because you look 
just as a little female artist ought to look. Al soul. 
Of course, you haven’t any soul. But I will help 
you to play being an artist, because of your lovely 
soulful artist eyes.” 

“Hum!” said Enid. ‘“She’d better not have that. 
It won’t do to let her get conceited. She’s too 
useful.” 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 135 


And she tore it into pieces and threw it into the 
fire. . 

“My dear!” cried Miss Mell. “I don’t think that 
was right!” 7 

“Rot!” said Enid. ‘“He’s simply trying to show 
that he’s not attracted by me. Can’t you see?” 

“What I can’t see,” said Miss Mell, thoughtfully. 
“Ts—which is the most unbearably conceited—you — 
or Lawrence Iverson ?”’ 

“He is,” said Enid, “because he’s older. It gets 
worse, always.” 

He came up again that afternoon; and, though 
they hadn’t spoken of it, they were all three quite 
sure that he would come, and were waiting for him. 

He went over to Miss Mell. 

“Your work,” he said, “‘is entirely hopeless. And 
you don’t care. You're really the cleverest of the 
lot. You know what youre doing. You're earning 
eervime, ..- But I can’t look at it. It’s too 
-obscene.”’ 

She smiled good-humouredly, without looking up 
from the picture of a small boy and a big package 
of coffee “For My Mudder.” 

“And you,” he said to Enid. ‘You're so infer- 
nally puffed up with pride in your work and your 
fine body that you can’t see the truth. Nothing but 


136 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


crazy visions. What you ought to be is an artist’s 
model. That is what you were intended for.” 

“That’s a part that wouldn’t suit you very well,” 
she answered, looking at his great, ungainly bulk. 

“Cheap!” he said. ‘Cheap wit. Cheap impu- 
dence. My skeleton is largely covered with fat, 
which is a source of great discomfort to me. And it 
seems humourous to you. Very well; that is Enid. 
Now this sweet child, Rosaleen, is promising. She 
iS innocent, naive. She sees what is, because she is 
rather too stupid to imagine what is not. I am going 
to teach her.” 

“To see what is not, I suppose,” said Enid. “Go 
ahead, then. Of course you'll spoil her. She was 
useful before. She used to cook the meals and go to 
market and sweep and mend our clothes. Now 
she’ll want to draw.” 

“So she shall draw! She shall be my Galatea. I 
shall create an artist with my own breath.” 

He sat down beside the alarmed and confused 
Rosaleen and began to instruct her. He was won- 
derful. He explained with exquisite lucidity; he 
was patient, he was kind. But Rosaleen was too 
nervous to profit by his teaching. Her hand 
trembled pitiably. | 

“Very well, then, my dear,” he said, kindly, “Tl 
wait until you’re more used tome. But in the mean- 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 137 


time, don’t touch a pencil. Every stroke you draw 
is a step on the road to perdition.” 

He patted her shoulder and left her, and began 
walking up and down the room. " 

“Don’t!” said Enid, impatiently. “It shakes the 
floor. . . . Sit down and smoke.” 

“IT don’t smoke.” 

“Why don’t you work?” 

“Still the school marm. You imagine you can 
‘be an artist’ by sitting over your work all your life. 
You haven’t the wit to see that art is the outcome 


39 


of experience 
“No, it isn’t. Unless it’s your ancestors’ ex- 
perience. It comes with you when you’re born. Art 


9 


is the result of impressions— 

“And how do you get impressions, woman, except 
through experience ?” 

“Some people can get a vivid impression by look- 
ing at a blank wall. It’s inside, not outside. What 
you call experience is nothing but distractions, in- 
Rerruptions.. . .” , 

“Young woman, what IJ call experience zs experi- 
ence. I’m not a timid female thing.” 

Then he began to boast—of how he had lived, 
how he had felt, what he had seen. He swaggered 
amazingly, pacing up and down the room, stroking 
his little black mustache, continually fixing his 


138 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


monocle with a tremendous grimace. Rosaleen was 
lost in bewilderment. She couldn’t for the life of 
her tell whether he was joking or serious, whether 
his talk was brilliant or idiotic. She could get no 
clue from Miss Mell, for she was still working and 
apparently paying no heed. Enid’s face had its 
usual fierce and scornful look, her voice its usual 
impatient vigour. She longed to have this man 
interpreted. 

She waited until Enid had gone out to the theatre 
that evening, and then, when she and Miss Mell 
were alone together in their candle-lighted studio, 
with a fire burning and a great air of peace and 
comfort, she said: 

“TIsn’t that Mr. Iverson—queer?” 

“‘Not so queer as he pretends to be,” she answered, 
which gave Rosaleen very little help. 

“Don’t you think he’s—sort of like Enid?” 

“Oh, mercy, no!” cried Miss Mell. “What makes 
you think that, Rosaleen?”’ 

Rosaleen couldn’t quite explain. 

“They're both so—they’re such—they talk < 

“They're both very rude, if that’s what you mean. 


But Enid’s rude because she’s so honest, and Iver- 
son’s rude as a pose. He’s a famous poseur.” 

That was Greek to Rosaleen. Miss Mell saw 
her puzzled frown and expatiated. 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 139 


“Y’ve met him before,” she said. “He doesn’t 
remember me, though. I’ve seen him two or three 
times. And I’ve heard a great deal about him. He’s 
a remarkable man—in some ways. But a poseur. 
.. - He affects that bluntness, but he’s not sin- 
cere. . . . I don’t think anyone could be less like 
Enid. To begin with, he hasn’t any self-control. 
They say he has the most terrific temper. He quar- 
rels with everyone. And he’s perfectly reckless; he 
doesn’t care what he does. I’ve heard the most extra- 
ordinary stories about him. He’s like a madman. 
And yet very greedy. He runs after people with 
money. While Enid—but you must know Enid a 
little by this time. She’s never reckless. She always 
knows what she’s doing, and she’d rather cut her 
heart out than do anything to injure her career. 
And as for toadying, she couldn’t. She cares no 
more for money than a baby.” 

“You think a lot of Enid, don’t you?” 

“Yes, I do!” said Miss Mell. 

There was a pause. 

“Well—do you like—him?” asked Rosaleen. 

“No,” said Miss Mell. ‘‘Not much. And don’t 
you, either!” 

But Rosaleen couldn’t help liking him! 

He didn’t come up the next afternoon. Rosaleen, 
going out on an errand, had of course to pass the 


140 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


door of his studio on the floor below, and from with- 
in she heard a most pleasant sound of feminine 
voices, gay, light, well-bred voices. On her way in 
again, she had paused for just a moment outside that 
door, and the hidden festivity was still going on; 
she heard the clink of silver on china, and those nice 
voices again. Later on, from the window upstairs, 
she saw a motor car glide up to the door in the dusk 
and stand there waiting, until finally two exquisitely 
dressed women came out and entered it, escorted 
gallantly by Lawrence Iverson. They drove off, 
leaving him standing bare-headed in the street. 


IV 


Miss Waters had become terribly excited when 
Rosaleen told her. 

“My dear! Not Lawrence Iverson! Right in the 
same house! Isn’t that marvellous! Now tell me 
all about him!” 

Rosaleen tried, but not very successfully. 

“But come and see him for yourself,” she said. 
“‘He’s sure to come in again some afternoon soon.” 

“Oh, no!” said Miss Waters, hastily. “I don’t 
think I will, dear. It would make me too nervous.” 

After that she wasn’t seen so often at the studio. 
She would dart in during the morning, perhaps 


a 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 141 


leaving a pupil at her home, and chat with Rosaleen 
for a little while, but always on edge, ready to flit 
away. It made her very happy to observe the hap- 
-piness of her favourite. And she alone was able to 
comprehend the things that made up that happi- 
ness. She could understand the joy that seized 
Rosaleen whenever she had been out on a frosty 
morning, when she crossed the snow-covered Square 
and entered the room with its crackling fire and saw 
the two girls working in absolute quiet. She loved 
even the careless and shiftless housekeeping, the 
things brought in from the delicatessen, salads in 
paper boats, cold sliced meats, buns, rolls, cakes. 
They rarely cooked anything; they went out every 
night to dinner, either to an Italian table d’hote or 
to the tea room in the basement; when Enid wasn’t 
with them, they always asked Miss Waters, and fre- 
quently the two English girls who had a dressmak- 
ing establishment near by would join them. They 
were nice, jolly, sophisticated girls and Rosaleen 
liked them. She used to go now and then to their 
place, which they call “Fine Featuers,” and they 
would give her “pointers” about making her own 
clothes. } 

The tea room in the basement was kept by the 
desperately lively girl who had been at the birthday 
party; she was from the Middle West, and she was 


142 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


blessed with the name of Esther Gosorkus. She had 
enormous, babyish blue eyes and oily brown hair 
always done with a wide fillet of blue ribbon. She 
was enthusiastic and friendly and agreeable beyond | 
belief; she adored everyone. Yet she was able to 
charge hair-raising prices for her food, and for the 
Antiques which she also sold down there. Enid 
always called her The Fool. 

‘She can’t be a fool,” said Miss Mell. ‘‘She’s 
making pots of money.” 

“Plenty of fools can do that,” said Enid. “Set 
_a fool to catch a fool! Of course! They prey on 
one another.”’ 

Miss Gosorkus’ connection with Art was vague; 
still she wore smocks and went to studio parties; 
she talked about the Artists’ Colony, and considered 
that she belonged to it. She used to come up to the 
studio rather often, and had to talk to Rosaleen, 
because the other two gave her no encouragement. 
But Rosaleen thought her jolly and rather nice, and 
when she went out marketing, used to stop in at the 
Tea Room and Antique Shop and buy sandwiches 
for lunch, or if there were something palatable in 
course of preparation, she would buy three portions 
and bring them upstairs to her friends. Not very 
often, though; for she was fastidious about food, 
and Miss Gosorkus’ methods seemed to her more 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 143 


than questionable at times. She had to see it all 
done by Miss Gosorkus and the coloured cook before 
she would buy. 

The mornings generally fled by in work of this 
unartistic nature, in marketing, in making up the 
cots, washing the dishes, and “‘attending to things.” 
After lunch was eaten and cleared away she would 
always sit down resolved to work earnestly, but 
often Lawrence Iverson came in, and while he was 
there, she dared not draw a line. 


Vv 


Preruaps the very foundation of her satisfaction 
with life lay in Lawrence Iverson’s kindness. He 
would come swaggering up and talk outrageously, 
unpardonably to Enid, look with a groan over Miss 
Mell’s shoulder and call her work “filth for the 
hungry hogs.” But he would look at Rosaleen’s 
dress designs and simpering fashion plates quite seri- 
ously, and advise her, with wonderfully practical 
advice. 

What most touched her though was his niceness 
to Miss Waters. The poor old thing was trapped 
one day, and couldn’t get away; had to stand there 
in all her preposterousness, in her fur coat and her 
battered hat, and allow that most elegant and criti- 


144 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


cal artist to be presented to her. JRosaleen was 
frightened, thinking of Enid’s rudeness. But Iver- 
son was vof¢ rude; on the contrary he was very polite, 
very friendly. He talked to her about Paris, and 
she was transported to the Seventh Heaven. Just 
to recall the names of the streets! (She didn’t know 
very much else of the city.) She went off with 
Rosaleen almost idiotic with pleasure. 

“Lawrence,’ said Enid, when they had gone, 
“you make me séck!”’ 

“Why?” he enquired, twirling his little mustache. 

“You're a regular, old-fashioned stage villain,” 
she said. ‘‘All the trouble you’re taking—all the 
elaborate plots—to get that silly little kid.” 

“Hold your tongue!” he said, flushing angrily. 
“Let’s have no more of your beastly female 
obsessions.” 


VI 


Two days later he came upstairs unexpectedly 
early, before lunch, and found Rosaleen peeling 
mushrooms in the dark back room. It made him 
furious; he swore at Enid and Miss Mell and called 
them beastly exploiters. 

“Rosaleen,”’ he said. “Come downstairs with me 
and work.” 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 145 

“Don’t you go!” said Enid. “He’sa villain. He 
has evil designs upon you.” 

Rosaleen turned crimson. 

“Oh, go along!” said Miss Mell. “It'll do you 
good, Rosaleen. You can take care of yourself.” 

“Of course she can!” said Enid. “All the little 
burgesses know how to do that. Lawrence, if you 
want to love Rosaleen, you'll have to pay for her 
mushrooms all the days of your life!” 


CHAPTER THREE 
I 


He took her by the hand and led her down the 
dark stairs, and flung open the door of his room 
ceremoniously. An immense room, which ran from 
the front to the back of the house. It was bare, 
plain, neat as a pin, no draperies, no artistic orna- 
ments. And yet it had a fine air of luxury. There 
was a splendid wood fire in the grate, and before it 
stood a waggon with a silver tea service, brightly 
polished. Every one of the chairs, ranged severely 
against the walls, was rare and beautiful; the rug 
on the floor was a fine Chinese one. The walls were 
bare, not a single picture to be seen but the one he 
was completing, on an easel near the window. 

He was wonderfully polite. He settled Rosaleen 
at a little table and brought her all the materials 
she required. 

‘Now, my dear child,” he said. ‘Just what is 
it you want to do?” 

“Well,” said Rosaleen. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to 


think about making money.” 
146 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 147 


“Ah! Who hasn’t? Very well, then, so you 
shall!” 

He encouraged her very much. She sat at the 
little table working patiently all the afternoon. 
They hardly spoke. He was at work on his own 
canvas, but he took time now and then to go over to 
Rosaleen and make a suggestion or a correction. She 
had never worked so well before; the finished figures 
delighted her. 

When the light began to fail, he pushed the easel 
into a corner and stretched. 

“Now, nice Rosaleen, make tea!” he said. 

She did her best, but tea-making was an exotic 
art for her; she understood nothing of its possi- 
bilities. 

“Dear creature ! 


499 


he cried. “I don’t want a con- 
centrated essence of tea!” 

He took the charge from her, and began very 
deftly to do it himself. Then he handed her a cup 
of delicate, fragrant, clear amber liquid (which she 
privately considered much too weak). She drank 
it dutifully, disappointed that there wasn’t so much 
as a cracker or a piece of bread to go witb it. 

“Shall I wash the tea things for you?” He asked, 
when they had finished. 

He smiled. 


148 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


“T have a person for that, thank you. No; let’s 
talk instead. We've never had a talk alone... . 
Won’t you tell me something about yourself?” 

With her release from the Humbertian atmos- 
phere, Rosaleen had lost her former humility. None 
of these people would care in the least who her 
mother was. She wasn’t ashamed now. She was 
rather glad of a chance to place herself, to explain 
that she wasn’t “Miss Humbert.” She told him 
candidly, and he seemed to hang on her words. In- 
deed, his interest became embarrassing, for after she 
had ceased to speak, he still continued to stare at 
her with a curious intensity. Somehow his face 
looked different........ She stirred uneasily. 

“Td better be going, I think,” she said. 
“They'll ¥ : 

But he stopped her as she was about to get up, 
with a hand on her arm. 

‘No! he said. © “Nol eee 

“Why?” she asked. 

His great staring eyes made her terribly uneasy. 

“T’ll really have to go,” she said. “It’s late.” 

He let her rise this time, but rose himself as well, 
and suddenly caught her in his arms. 

She was for an instant too much astounded to 
- struggle. But as he tried to kiss her, she gave him 
a vigourous push. 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 149 


19 


“Let me go!” she cried. ‘‘What’s the matzer with 
you ?” 

He couldn’t delude himself that she was acting; 
he could see too plainly the horrified incredulity in 
_ her eyes. He saw that he had made a mistake. 
He released her at once. 

“Rosaleen!” he said. “I—apologise!”’ 

She turned away without answering and went to 
the door. But he went in front of her. 

“Don’t be unreasonable!” he said. “I’m sorry. 
I can’t say any more, can I? I didn’t mean any- 
thing. Shake hands and say you forgive me?” 

Rosaleen shook her head. 

“T can’t!” she said, with a faint sob. ‘“You don’t 
—you couldn’ t know—how I hate anything of that 
sort... . And you! ... I didn’t think it was zz 
you.” , 

“It’s gn all men,” said Lawrence, gloomily. 

“No, it isn’t!” said Rosaleen, thinking of that one 
quite perfect man she had lost. 

“T tell you it is!’ said Lawrence, beginning to 
grow angry. ‘What do you know about men?” 

Rosaleen didn’t answer, but he saw a tear run- 
ning down her cheek. 

“Bah!” he shouted. ‘Don’t be tragic, for God’s 


sake! Why should you make such a row about 


150 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


that? You're none the worse, are you, in health, 
morals or purse, because I tried to kiss you?” 
>? 


“Yes, I am!” said she, stubbornly. ‘I’ve lost 
something I thought a lot of. . . . My confidence 


33 


in 

“Don’t say confidence in me! I won’t allow 
women to have confidence in me. It’s insulting. 
Go on, if you want to! Go upstairs and cry and 
snivel and have a scene with your two pretious 
friends.” 

She was half way up the stairs when he came 
bounding after her. 

“Rosaleen!’’ he whispered. ‘‘Please! Be friends 
again! I’m sorry. But I’m sure you understand?” 

Against the ancient flattery of that appeal she 
had no defense. She took the big hand he proffered. 

“All right!’ she said, with her absurd, her 


heavenly benevolence. 


II 


AFTER that he behaved very well. He was a 
most gallant and generous friend, and a valuable 
one. In spite of his swagger, his bombastic talk, 
in spite of his fatness and foppishness, he had un- 
deniably a grand air, a sort of magnificence. He 
saw to it that she was well treated by the others, 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 151 


and that she had an advantage over them. It lay 
in his hands to bestow prestige, and he did so. She 
became tenfold more important, more significant. 
He knew how to manage this. He gave Rosaleen 
privileges which he permitted to no one else. Enid 
and Dodo were very rarely invited into his studio, 
but Rosaleen worked there two or three days a week. 

He hadn't gone so far as to be seen in public with 
her, though. He didn’t even take her to his own 
exhibition.. He was a conspicuous and, in certain 
circles, a well-known figure; he was very careful. 
He sometimes gave her tickets for private views, and 
so on, or even for theatres and concerts. He sent 
up chocolates and flowers from time to time, and 
the foreign art journals to which he subscribed. But 
he drew a line. He never asked Rosaleen into his 
studio when there was anyone there. More than 
once when she had come down as she had been told 
to do the day before, and knocked at his door, he 
would put out his head and stare at her through his 
monocle. | 

“Not to-day!” he would say. “Wait till [’'m 
alone.” 

Enid used to jeer at this. 

“Sent home?” she would say, when Rosaleen re- 
turned so promptly. But Rosaleen refused to resent 
this. 


152 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS © 


“Why in the world should he introduce me to his 
friends?” she asked. sane only knows me in a—oh, 
a sort of business way.” 

“He doesn’t think you’re good enough, 
Enid. 

“Maybe I’m not,” said Rosaleen, unruffled. “I 
dare say he knows lots of people who wouldn’t want 
to be bothered with me.” 

Not Enid nor Lawrence, nor anyone about her 
could understand her attitude. They thought her 
humble, lacking in pride. Even Miss Mell advised 
her to assert herself more. Whereas it wasn’t really 
humility, or lack of pride or self-respect; it was her 
exquisite Irish sense of propriety. She knew exactly 
where she belonged. And she didn’t hesitate to place 
Lawrence higher than herself. He was an incom- 
parably greater artist, he was much more important, 
much more clever. As for his moral worth, she 
didn’t take that into consideration. She never had 
made, she never would make, the least effort to judge 
the morals of other people. She had quite forgiven 
him his unique outburst, both because he was an ar- 
tist and outside the pale, and because she liked him. 
She had more indulgence for him, in fact, than she 
would have had for her hero, Nick Landry. No 
doubt because she didn’t expect very much from 


33 


said 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 153 


Lawrence. She went ahead, enjoying his compan- 
ionship without the least distrust. | 

He couldn’t have been nicer. To please her he 
even went so far as to go with her to Miss Waters’ 
studio. He had met Rosaleen in the street, on her 
way there. 

“She'd be so awfully pleased!” Rosaleen told him. 
“She admires your work so much.” 

He was good-humoured that afternoon, and lazy, 
indisposed for work; so he turned and walked along | 
with her, like an opulent foreign prince in his im- 
pressive fur-lined overcoat and his soft grey felt hat 
pulled down over his swarthy brow. | 

He didn’t stay long. Once in the street again he 
turned on Rosaleen with a scowl. 

“Why didn’t you fe/J me?’ he thundered, in 
a voice so loud that all the passersby turned to stare. 

“Tell you what?” Rosaleen asked, frightened. 

“What the woman did in there? Why didn’t 
you tell me what blasphemous crimes she com- 
mitted? Good God! The woman should be flayed 
alive!” 

“Oh, don’t!” entreated Rosaleen. ‘Please don’t 
talk so loud—and please don’t say horrible things 
about Miss Waters!” 

“Stop!” he said. “Never mention that name 
again!” 


154 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


Rosaleen was glad to escape from him that time, 
and she never did mention Miss Waters’ name to 
him again. 


III 


THE time came inevitably when they felt the call 
to give a party. It was almost simultaneous; they 
never knew quite whose idea it was. They were all 
of them filled with enthusiasm, but it was more tre- 
mendous for Rosaleen, because it was her first. 

They borrowed a phonograph from the “FINE 
FraTHErRsS” girls, and Miss Mell seriously under- 
took to teach Rosaleen to dance. Every evening 
after dinner Enid would put on a dance record and 
Miss Mell, pinning up her skirt so that her feet 
could the better be observed, would steer Rosaleen 
through the steps of fox-trot, one-step and waltz. 
Enid would criticise. But even she admitted that 
Rosaleen had a gift. 

“It’s Jrishness,” she said. “Theyre all nice 
dancers, I notice; all those downtrodden, suffering 
nations, Poles and Irish, and so on. Queer, isn’t 
it?” 

The invitations circulated mysteriously and 
casually, and were as casually accepted. But it was 
none the less a festivity which required great prep- 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 1g6 


arations. Rosaleen bought a new dress and Miss 
Mell made over an old one. But Enid refused to 
make any further concession than a new blouse, to 
be worn with her everyday skirt. And yet, on the 
night of the party, when she was dressed, she was 
amazing. It was a low cut blouse, and quite thin 
enough to reveal the matchless lines of her shoulders, 
the perfection of her supple arms, her lovely throat. | 
And she wore a pearl necklace, a genuine one, which 
she never explained. It was the first time that Rosa- 
leen had realised her striking beauty, or the full 
extent of her arrogant charm. Even in her new 
dress, with her hair arranged so prettily, she felt, for 
a moment, just a little miserable beside Enid. 

Miss Mell was dumpy and unobtrusive and cor- 
rect, and according to her custom, completely cov- 
ered by a large gingham apron until the last minute. 
She and Rosaleen cooked the early dinner, but Rosa- 
leen couldn’t eat and she would hardly allow them 
to, either. She hurried them so anxiously, so that she 
could get everything ready before the party came. 
Enid sprinkled powdered wax on the floor, and Rosa- 
leen and Miss Mell pushed all the furniture back 
against the walls. Then they lighted all the candles, 
under their purple and yellow shades; then on a 
table in a corner they arranged their refreshments, 
salad, cake and sandwiches got from Miss Gosor- 


156 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


kus, and a bowl of punch. Miss Mell had oiled the 
phonograph and bought some new records, and she 
instructed Rosaleen in the art of manipulating it. 

“Be careful when you wind it up!” she cautioned. 
“Something’s wrong. It rocks so. I’m afraid of its 
tipping off the table.” : | 

The preparations were completed very early, and 
the happy Rosaleen had nothing to do but sit near 
the window to wait, where she could see the lights 
glittering up Fifth Avenue, and the buses sailing to 
and fro. } : 

Presently Enid joined her, sat on the window 
sill, perfectly still, perfectly silent. She didn’t even 
move when Lawrence came in, urbane and indulgent, 
in evening dress. HRosaleen and Miss Mell wel- 
comed him with smiles; they were, and they were 
willing to show that they were, tremendously flat- 
tered at his coming to their party. 

“T’ve brought some champagne,” he said. “It’s in 
the hall, in a pail of ice” 

“How nice!” said Miss Mell. | 

He bowed politely. Then he turned his attention 
to Enid, sitting on the window sill. 

“Well, my beauty!” he said, in his harsh voice, 
“Looking out there for a new sweetheart?” 

Enid’s voice came, singularly flat and dispirited. 

“No,” she said. And after a pause. ‘I dare say 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 157 


I was looking for God. . . . What an empty look- 
ing heaven, isn’t it?” 

“On the contrary. I hear it’s extraordinarily 
crowded with planets and constellations and that 
sort of thing. And probably ghosts.” 

“Do you believe in ghosts—really ?”’ 

“No, my dear; I have no fears.” 

“Fears!” cried Enid. “Fears! . . . I wouldn’t 
Pasa peor, 1d call it ahope. .... Ob! “Don't 
I wish I could see a ghost! I’m—I’m always look- 
ing for something like that. Something to show 
that we don’t end.” 

“Aha! You're afraid of death, are you?” 

“No!” she said, impatiently. “Don’t you un- 
derstand? I don’t care when or how [ go. I don’t 
care whether I become an angel or a devil, or a puff 
of breath in a great god’s mouth. Or a ghost. So 
long as it doesn’t end.” 

“Tt does end,” said Lawrence. ‘Rest assured of 
that.” 

“Don’t you care?” 

“My dear creature, I shall never know it. I'll 
never be conscious of this highly unpleasant annihi- 
lation. It’s only the dread of it. And that doesn’t 
exist if you refuse to think of it.” 

“But suppose there’s someone else you're longing 
and longing to see again?” 


158 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


“Now!” he cried, triumphantly. “Now we’re 
getting at the mystery of your life. It’s a dead 
lover!” 

“Oh! You and your beastly obsession with 
lovers!’ she cried, almost with a sob. ‘It’s a— 
childs chost./o ast. % | 

“Be thankful it’s out of this brutal, hostile world, 
then,’ said Lawrence. ‘‘Where’s Rosaleen? She 
lives in another nice little world, all by herself.” 

‘Perhaps hers is the real world,” said Enid. “TI 
wish I could think so.” 


IV 


Ir was a wonderful ecstatic evening, the sort 
Rosaleen expected of artists. The studio was 
crowded, suffocatingly hot, filled with a joyful 
young riot. Except for Lawrence, they were all 
young. There was Miss Gosorkus and a man she 
had brought, there were the two English girls with 
three of their countrymen, there was a male cousin 
of Miss Mell’s and three young ships’ officers known 
to her, and two old friends from her art school. 
There was a distrait young Frenchman desperately 
in love with Enid, and a lot of other people who 
drifted in and out. There was a terrific amount of 
noise; they were wilfully, exaggeratedly noisy; they 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 159 


sang, shouted and stamped. The old phonograph 
blared its loudest, and the couples danced as best 
they could in the crowd. They drank the punch and 
the champagne and grew wilder and wilder. Rosa- 
leen, astonished and delighted, believed herself 
actually to be witnessing one of those “orgies” so 
often mentioned in the papers as taking place in 
artists’ studios. It was not till long, long afterward 
that she realised how innocent, how decent, how 
happy it really was, how young... . 

At first she was rather ignored. Enid was so 
dazzling that she captured all the strangers, and the 
rest of the crowd all knew Dodo Mell and went to 
her in preference to Rosaleen. But, by the time the 
thing was in full swing, she, too, had at last secured 
the exclusive attention of someone; she, too, like 
Enid, like Devery, younger of the English girls, like 
the two Art School girls, had a man standing at her 
side and admiring her when he wasn’t dancing with 
her. She didn’t know his name or who he was, but 
he was amusing and rather attractive; a curly- 
haired, black-eyed young man, looking rather like a 
sprightly devil, with outstanding ears which gave 
him a singularly alert air. 

Suddenly, almost of one accord, they all wearied 
of dancing. 


160 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


“Let’s go out somewhere,” said Rosaleen’s young 
man. It was the classic suggestion, and they all 
agreed joyfully. 

“T’ll take you all to the Brevoort for supper,” said 
the magnificent Lawrence. 

Rosaleen was passing about a basket of cigarettes, 
and she happened at that instant to be standing at 
his elbow. And she said, with polite and surprised 
joy: 

“How nice!” 

He turned and looked at her, fixed his monocle 
and stared at her. 

“Td forgotten all about you!” he said. “What 
are you doing?” 

“Having a lovely time!” she told him, with a 
smile. 

“You look very pretty,” he said. ‘Very 
SWEEL a taluc 

And she fancied, half ashamed of the fancy, that 
again his face changed as it had done that afternoon 
in his studio. 

He bent his lordly head. 

“T want to speak to you!” he whispered. “Slip 
into the back room and wait!” 

A little reluctant, but very curious, she did so; 
and for five very long minutes stood in there, with 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 161 


the gas turned low, and the two cots piled with 
imposing male overcoats and sticks, and the furs 
and wraps of the girls. The sound of the music and 
the dancing feet made her impatient: someone 
shouted “One more before we go! Put on a good 
record, Enid!” She really couldn’t have endured 
it much longer, if Lawrence hadn’t come. But, 
though he had said he wanted to speak to her, he 
stood there speechless, fingering his monocle, not 
even looking at her. At last he said: 

“Er... Rosaleen! ... It occurred to me— 
wouldn’t you like to stop for your Miss Waters?” 

She thought she had never heard a kinder, a more 
generous idea. 

“Why, yes, I would!” she said. “It’s very nice 
of you to think of that!” 

“Then we'd better arrange this way. You go 
downstairs with the others, but slip into my studio. 
The door’s open and it’s dark; no one will notice 
you. Then I’]l make some excuse to get away from 
them, and [1] come back here with a taxi.” 

“A taxi! We won’t need a taxi. It’s only:a 
step. And I don’t see why we need to make such 


39 


a secret of it all 
“Enid would make a row,” he said with a frown. 


199 


“No; do it my way, if you please! 


102 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


Vv 


Tue dawn was coming when the taxi drew up to 
the door. Lawrence got out, helped Rosaleen to 
descend, and while he paid the enormous reckoning 
she stood in the dim street, over which hung that 
strange air of suspense which comes before the sun- 
rise. The street lights still burned, but against a 
palely clear sky; the sparrows in the park were be- . 
ginning to stir. 

Lawrence opened the front door with his key and 
they entered the dark hall, musty with the smell of 
cooking, of paints. Outside his own door he held 
out a hand and she took it; an immense, fat hand. 

“Now then, it’s all réghz, isn’t it?” he said, with 
exaggerated heartiness. “No ill feeling, is there? 
We're the best of friends?” 

“Oh, yes!” said Rosaleen, brightly, and in her 
mind added: 

“If only I can get away from you and never, 
never set eyes on youagain... !” 

A desolating weariness was upon her; her limbs 
were like lead as she climbed the stairs. Her chief 
desire was not to wake Mell and Bainbridge; the 
idea of having to talk to them, to open her lips even 
to answer them, was intolerable. She had had her 
fill of talking that night. 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 163 


For the sake of ventilation the girls always slept 
with the curtains between the rooms drawn back and 
the studio windows open; and so it was now. She 
could see them there in the back room, solemnly 
still, on their cots, with the faint breeze of the sun- 
rise blowing through the big room and lifting a fine, 
cindery dust from the hearth. Rosaleen sat down 
- near the window and rested her head on her arms, 
on the broad sill. 

Now that the sun had got up, the whole thing 
began to assume the character of a nightmare. Her 
tired brain began to confuse the memory of Law- 
rence with the drawing of a gargoyle she had seen 
in his studio the day before. In a blurred memory 
she seemed to see him as a sort of monster who had 
for hours and hours been sitting by her side and talk- 
ing. ‘Talking and talking and talking. And about 
what, do you suppose, but to urge her to run away 
with him. She had said she didn’t want to, but he 
had considered that of no importance. He had con- 
sidered it a matter for logic, for reasoning. He had 
tried to show her the advantages; and when she 
persisted in saying that she didn’t want to, he had 
become offensive and horrible. He had never had 
the faintest intention of going after Miss Waters; 
the taxi, by his command, went speeding through 
Central Park, up Riverside Drive, went on through 


164 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


roads and streets unknown to her, while Lawrence 
talked, shouted, bullied her. She had never im- - 
agined anything so horrible. And yet she wasn’t 
afraid of him. Perhaps some feminine instinct in- 
formed her that a talking man, like a barking dog, 
is not to be feared. 

And, quite suddenly, touched by some obscure 
impulse, he had become sorry. He had called him- 
self a brute and a beast; he said he must have been 
mad, and she was privately inclined to agree with 
him. She didn’t know that it was his theory that 
women are to be won by force, by daring. With 
her, love could only be the outcome of sympathy. 
She could only love a man because she liked him. 
But she was not so much angry at Lawrence as dis- 
gusted and astonished. When he begged for her 
forgiveness she gave it promptly, and hoped that 
this would be the end of this immeasurably painful 
scene. But it was not enough. Nothing would do 
but a reconciliation, and for this it appeared neces- 
sary to go to a road house and have supper and 
more champagne. She sat at the table with him in 
the crowded, noisy dining-room, while he acted the 
jovial host; she had a constrained but polite smile 
for his pleasantries. She had been as diplomatic 
with him as if he had been a lunatic. 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 165 


All the way home he had worshipped her as an 
angel. He said he wasn’t fit to live in the same 
world with her... . | 

And now, with the world awake, the sun shining, 
the streets alive, for the first time since the wretched 
fiasco, Rosaleen began to weep for young Landry. 


CHAPTER FOUR 
I 


SHE needn’t have worried; neither Enid nor Dodo 
Mell asked a single question. Somewhere near ten 
o'clock Enid woke up and at once shook her sleepy 
friend, who, after putting on her spectacles and a 
lavender kimono, set to work to make coffee. And 
suddenly discovered Rosaleen asleep in a chair in 
the studio. 

“Coffee, Rosaleen!” she called, cheerfully. 

She awoke with a start and sat up, pale and dis- 
hevelled, in her party dress and slippers. But they 
showed no surprise. Breakfast was ready on a trunk 
in the back room and they all sat down to it, the 
benign Dodo in her kimono, Enid in a smock and 
petticoat, with her bare feet in mules, and Rosaleen 
with her incongruously dissipated look. 

“Nice rolls!” said Enid. ‘Where'd you get them, 
Rosaleen?” 

“A little new baker’s,” Rosaleen answered. 

Never had her friends seemed so charming, or a 
feminine world so desirable. The coffee cheered her 


sad heart, and raised her spirits, and after she had 
166 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 167 


bathed and dressed, she lost all sense of fatigue. 
She had, in fact, that false vigour one sometimes 
has after a sleepless night, that sensation of being 
all mind and spirit and no body. 

“Ambrose is coming this afternoon!”’ called Miss 
Mell, suddenly, from her drawing, to Rosaleen 
washing handkerchiefs in the rusty sink. 

“Who’s Ambrose?” she asked. 

“Oh, my dear, how cruel! Why, he’s the one 
who adored you so last night. He’s my cousin.” 

Rosaleen recollected the young man like a 
sprightly devil, with the curly hair and the out- 
standing ears. 

“Id better tidy up the place then,” she said. “‘It’s 
awful.” 

“T’ll treat us all to cakes for tea,’ said Dodo. 
“If you'll get them, Rosaleen?” 

“‘And there are two dead mice in the trap,’ 
Enid. “Better take them out!” 

Rosaleen protested; this was an intolerable task. 
But Dodo and Enid assured her that the mice would 
stay there until she removed them. 

‘“‘And every day it'll be worse,” said Enid. 

So Rosaleen was obliged to drop the little victims 
into an empty cracker box and throw thern out of 
the window at the back of the hall. She fetched 
the cakes and borrowed an extra cup from Miss 


b 


said 


168 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


Gosorkus. Then she sat down listlessly. Her work 
was all in Lawrence’s studio, and she had nothing 
to do. 


II 


Amsrost MattrHews was, in fact, a very wel- 
come distraction. He came that afternoon, and he 
was so nicely entertained that he returned again 
and again, nearly every day. Enid said she didn’t 
mind as long as he waited until five o'clock, be- 
cause then the light wasn’t any good. Miss Mell 
was not disturbed by talking, or by walking, or by 
singing or by dancing while she worked, and Rosa- 
leen, it must be confessed, cared very little whether 
she worked at all, or not. 

Ambrose was a young man with an obsession. 
Two generations ago it would have been called 
Love; one generation past would have called it 
Women; but he, of course, called it Sex. He was 
a writer, he said. His father supported him, so that 
he didn’t need to be “commercial.” He was indeed 
so uncommercial that his creations never got beyond 
his own brain. However, he was only twenty-two, 
and still regarding his world. 

The talk, during his visits, was supposed to be 
stimulating, and it resolved itself into a sort of 
duel between Ambrose and Rosaleen, in which Enid 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 169 


was the young man’s perverse second and Miss Mell 
assisted Rosaleen in her defense. 

He used to bring lurid little magazines of strange 
shapes and colours, things that never lasted more 
than a few months. 

“Why do they publish the things?” asked Miss 
Mell. ‘They certainly can’t pay. And nobody 
could possibly enjoy them.” 

“Listen to this!” said Ambrose. “It’s good!” 

And then would follow the expression of some 
individual’s point of view, which was called an 
“article,” always about fallen women, race suicide, 
and soon. It appeared from these little publications 
that it was not only necessary but “‘sincere’’ and alto- 
gether praiseworthy to repeat all the well-known 
facts and statistics on these subjects over and over, 
endlessly. No matter how trite, or how biased, so 
long as the author was “‘sincere” and stuck to more 
or less forbidden topics, his “article” must be pub- 
lished, and his opinion must be respected. It was 
a crime against society not to be eternally interested 
in these things. 

Rosaleen was well aware that Ambrose had no 
intentions toward her of a personal nature; he was 
simply mildly attracted by her. But as a matter of 
principle he was forever urging on her his point of 
view. He couldn’t endure her inviolable reserve; 


170 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


it made him furious that she would not discuss these 
things. He was always saying how incomplete was 
the life of a woman without an “affair.” And he 
was not content with dissertations upon the influ- 
ence of love on the soul; he became medical and 
pathological and sociological. According to him, the 
life of a spinster was not only anti-social and 
morbid; it was a sort of suicide; it led inevitably to 
madness and death. Facts did not disturb him; the 
numbers of self-respecting celibate women he was 
naturally obliged to meet, who were neither ill nor 
mad, and who were quite as happy as the married 
women, convinced him not at all. All these women, 
he insisted, were either absorbed in secret love- 
affairs, or—or they could not and did not exist. He 
denied them. 

“Tl tell you what’s the matter with you and 
your professors and your doctors and your writers,” 
said Enid, one day. “It makes you all frantic to 
think that women can get along without you. Well, 
they can and they do, plenty of them.” 

Ambrose said, no, they didn’t. Or if they did, 
they were dreadfully unhappy. 

“No more unhappy than with them,” said Enid. 

As for Rosaleen, she said nothing. She didn’t 
agree with either Ambrose or Enid. She felt that 
she should have liked very much to have a husband 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 171 


and children, but that, if they never came to her, 
she should nevertheless manage to live a fairly pleas- 
ant and happy life. She knew, however, that this 
was not a “view,” and that no one would have been 
interested in hearing it. 

In spite of his fixed idea, they not only tolerated 
Ambrose, but they were rather fond of him. He 
filled a gap. He was, in a way, their pet. They 
liked to see his curly head leaning against the back 
of their big wing chair; they liked to hear his voice, 
and to smell the smoke of his pipe. He was an- 
other young thing in their young world; and what 
in later life was to be highly unpleasant, was now, 
at twenty-three, harmless and laughable. 

Lawrence never came. Dodo and Enid saw that 
there was a mystery here, and they spoke of it to 
each other more than once. Sometimes they laughed 
and sometimes they were angry. The way in which 
he had invited everyone to supper and then run off 
and left the others to pay! But they didn’t men- 
tion it to Rosaleen, and she, in despair of ever being 
able to explain that extraordinary evening, never 
brought up the subject. But they all missed him. 
Once in a while Miss Mell would say, ““There goes 
Lawrence!” and they would run to the window, to 
see him, in his great fur-lined coat and silk hat, 
getting into a taxi, off to one of those teas where he 


172 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


so shone. He was inordinately fond of “society”: 
they read his name in the papers in connection with 
all sorts of pageants, charity balls, amateur the- 
atricals, costume dances. He said he did it to get 
business, but that wasn’t quite true. He did it be- 
cause he liked it; because he liked the idle and se- 
ductive women who flattered him. He had sitters, 
too, women who came in elegant limousines and had 
tea with him. He never raised his eyes to the win- 
dows above. 


III 


But one day early in April, just before the Spring 
came, he appeared, just as usual, in the doorway. 

“Hello!” said Enid, carelessly. ‘We didn’t ex- 
pect you. We haven’t any cup for your tea. We 
broke our only extra one this morning.” 

“The obliging Dorothy Mell will go down to 
my room and get one,” said he, “also a package of 
chocolates on the table by the window. Eh?” 

She did, and she brought up all Rosaleen’s work 
and left it secretly in the back room. 

Lawrence was unusually polite. He asked them 
all how they were getting on, and listened with 
interest while they told him. They were all a little 
proud of their progress. Miss Mell had three big 
orders ahead of her. Enid was going to have an 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 173 


exhibition with three other young and arrogantly 
unpopular artists. And Rosaleen was more or less 
regularly employed by a magazine to do each month 
a page of—if you can believe that such things exist 
—‘“‘childrens’ fashions.” 

“You're all doing very nicely,” he said. “I’m 
very much pleased. I came up to give you my bless- 
ing before I go.” 

“Before you go!” said Miss Mell. ‘‘Where are 
you going?” 

“Tm giving up my place downstairs, and to- 
morrow, fo-morrow, Vm off to Paris! Paris the 
kind, Paris the friendly! Paris the beneficent 
goddess of my student days! I have a nostalgia, my 
children. . . . So I shall kiss you all good-bye and 
give you a little fatherly advice before leaving . . .” 

He swaggered over to Rosaleen’s table. 

“No reason why you shouldn’t become success- 
ful,” he said. ‘You must know, my children, that 
brains are not necessary to an artist. An artist can 
be absolutely crude and ignorant, and yet be a 
genius. He needs only an ardent spirit. Of course, 
you haven’t got that, Rosaleen, but then you're not 
an artist. But take this Enid girl. Give her a cer- 
tain amount of knowledge, as definite as that of a 
brick-layer; teach this woman to draw, and she wz// 
be an artist—of a sort. She doesn’t need to know 


174 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


anything else. She won’t need to read, or to 
unk ay 

“Oh, so you’re beginning to see me, are you?” 
said Enid. 

“IT always did see you, my dear. You're very nice 
to see. Children, listen to my advice. If a woman 
wishes to make herself irresistible, after attending 
to personal appearance, I recommend her to become 
an artist or an actress. Nothing else will give her 
the same prestige—not even a lot of money. There’s 
a rakishness about it—a spiciness. It gives a 
piquancy even to Rosaleen.” 

He laughed. ; 

“Good Lord?” he said. ‘How they all love us! 
It’s queer. . . . Of all artists, the painter is the 
favourite with the public. To most of them, artist 
means painter. . . .. And yet, thinking it over, it’s 
not so hard to understand this favouritism. The 
painter is apt to be more ordinary, more normal, 
more human, than the poet or the musician. His art 
is more obvious, more facile. It certainly requires 
less ‘temperament.’ The painter isnot required to 
be erratic and morbid. In fact, a proper painter is 
expected to be more or less rollicking. I ask you to 
consider for a moment the popular idea of what 
goes on in our studios! ‘The public imagines the 
poet sitting up all night writing in ecstasy, the musi- 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 175 


cian forever before his instrument. But the painter! 
Lord! They never think of us as working. We're 
supposed to be eternally pawning our dead mother’s 
ring for money for Bohemian orgies, to be rowdy 
and care-free and generous, and all that sort of thing. 
The painter is the only artist that the public likes 
to see happy.” 

“Of course it’s the easiest art to understand,” said 
Enid. 

“Don’t talk, woman, but listen and try to learn. 
There’s no question here of ‘understanding’ art. But 
it’s easier and pleasanter for people to look at a 
painting, which takes only a minute, than it is to 
listen to an opera, or to read an epic. . . . So I ad- 
vise you all to be artists, my children, and to enjoy 
yourselves.” | 

Then he solemnly kissed them each good-bye. 

And after that, no more of Lawrence for a long 
time. 


CHAPTER FIVE 


Miss Waters was clearing out her desk that 
morning. She had a pupil drawing in the studio, 
but it was a pupil who was meek and ignorant and 
could be left alone. She was trying to figure out 
just how much she owed, writing in an exercise 
book, with great precision, the amount, the date, 
and the nature of each bill. 

WILLIAM WELLS—GROCER—EGGS, COFFEE, 
BREAD, JAM—-MAY 4TH, 1915. $3.07. 

That was an old one. .... Bills for paints, 
brushes, paper, for headache powders, cold cream 
and ‘druggists’ sundries,” for framing, bills of car- 
penters, coal and wood men, icemen, butchers. And 
she had got into one of her panics, at the sight of 
all these debts, and the thought of her penniless old 
age. Her mind would rush round like a little ani- 
mal in a cage, looking for a chance of escape. She 
felt trapped and terrified. She didn’t know how to 
earn or how to save. She foresaw herself starving 
in a garret, dying in the ward of a hospital, going 
mad, being paralysed and helpless, all the spectres 
that haunted her hours of serious thought. 


There was a ring at the door bell. She didn’t go. 
176 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 177 


She always waited hoping that the presumable col- 
lector would go away. But it rang again and again, 
and at last the meek little pupil called out, “I think 
your bell is ringing, Miss Waters!” So finally she 
opened the door, to see there the obliging little 
Italian fruiterer. 

“Telephone!” he cried, in great excitement. 
“Telephone, Missa Wata!”’ 

Having no telephone in her own flat, Miss Waters 
had long. ago made an “arrangement” with Tony, 
by which she was permitted to give her friends his 
telephone number, and was to be summoned by him 
when anyone of them should call for her. It didn’t 
happen very often. 

“Oh, my!” she said. “I’m so busy! Do you 
know who it is, Tony?” 

He shook his head. 

“Telephone!” he cried, again. 

“FEr—chi?’ she enquired. “Chi, Tony?” 

“Doan know!” he cried, in distress. ‘Doan 
know! Missa Wata coma quick!” 

She slipped into a rain-coat and hurried out to 
the little shop on the corner, where at the back, 
among barrels and boxes and crates and a pungent 
smell of oranges,.was Tony’s telephone. She picked 
up the receiver. | 


178 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


“Ye-hes?” she enquired, in her most cultivated 
voice. 

“Number please.!”’ said the operator. 

“T don’t want a number,” Miss Waters explained. - 
“Someone called me!” 

“Your party’s hung up!” said the operator. 

Miss Waters didn’t comprehend, but Tony’s wife, 
an opulent young woman nursing a big baby, ex- 
claimed: 

“Your fren, she no wait. You come too slow. 
She go away. Gooda-bye.”’ 

Miss Waters was frantically distressed, and pro- 
tested through the telephone. But the operator had 
no consolation to give her, and Tony and his wife 
were smiling and indifferent. She left the shop, 
after buying an orange to placate Tony, and re- 
turned to her flat. But her distress did not subside; 
she felt that she had been called upon and had not 
responded, that in some way she had failed someone. 

And suddenly came to the conclusion that it must 
have been Rosaleen. She “just felt” that it was. 
And it worried her beyond measure. She knew that 
Rosaleen was quite alone in her studio now, for Mell 
and Bainbridge had gone to Provincetown for the 
month of July, and she felt sure that something 
was wrong. Rosaleen wouldn’t have called her out 
for nothing. She peered into the studio; the meek 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 179 


- pupil was still drawing a “study” of empty boxes; 
then she hurried out of the flat and back to Tony’s 
fruit store. i 

It was Rosaleen’s own voice that answered, and 
she gave an odd cry: 

Plies Waters! . .'.. Pd -been trying .. ~” 

“T thought so, dear! Was there fe 

“Please come right away!’’ Rosaleen interrupted 
her, with desperate earnestness. ‘Just as quickly 
as you possibly can! Please, please hurry!” 

“What's wrong, my dear?” 

“Oh, never mind! IJll tell you when you get 
here. Hurry!” 

Her great anxiety made the poor old soul slower 
than ever. With fumbling, trembling fingers she 
tried to dress in such a way as to be ready for any 
emergency; then she went into the studio to excuse 
herself to the pupil, and couldn’t get away from her; 
stood there saying utterly unnecessary things, re- 
peating herself. At last she was hurrying across the 
park in the glare of the July sun, trying to walk 
her fastest, but with a nightmare sensation of being 
as stiff as a wooden doll, and covering no ground. 
She hurried up the dark stairs and knocked on the 
studio door. It was flung open and Rosaleen con- 
fronted her. 

She gave a shriek of terror. 


180 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS — 


‘“Rosaleen!”’ she cried. “Oh! . i) Mesaleen t= 

To see neat, fair Rosaleen like this, white as a 
ghost, with her hair half down, her dress spattered 
with blood! ... 

“What zs it? What zs it?” she cried. 

“Hush!” whispered Rosaleen, shaking her arm. 
“Keep quiet! You've got to help me!” 

Miss Waters followed her into the back room, but 
she couldn’t suppress another scream. For there on 
one of the cots lay the enormous bulk of a man, with 
his eyes closed and his hair dank and wet across his 
brow. 

‘What shall I do with him?’ whispered Rosa- 
leen. 

“Who zs he?’ Miss Waters asked. 

“Why, Lawrence Iverson, of course!” 

‘“‘What’s the matter with him, Rosaleen?’ Miss 
Waters cried. ‘Is he—drunk?” 

“No! He tried to kill himself!” 

i Mercy. 

“Fe cut his wrist with a knife, and said he was 
going to bleed to death if 

“Send for a doctor quickly!” 

“No! Then he’d be put in prison. It’s against 
the law.” They both stared helplessly at the silent 
man. 


“We ought to tie it up,’”’ said Miss Waters. 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 181 


“I did. I don’t think it’s bleeding any more. But 
I’m afraid it was too late. He wouldn’t let me 
touch it at first. Oh, Miss Waters! Is he dying?” 

Miss Waters couldn’t help thinking so; anyone 
who lay quiet with closed eyes and a face as white 
as that was presumably dying. 

“I think you ought to get a doctor,” she said. 
“You might be accused of murdering him.” 

“T can't help it,’ said Rosaleen. “I told him I 
wouldn’t.” 

“Did he talk?’ 

“Yes, lots. He came in while I was eating my 


lunch. . . . Came bursting in the moment I opened 
the door. And he said he’d lost everything—he 
said ‘Heaven had mocked him’ . . . Then he said, 


‘Rosaleen, I’m going to kill myself, and I must have 
you near me when I die,’ and he took a knife out of 
mempocwe ©. . Oh! 2 

She gripped Miss Waters’ hand violently, strug- 
gling against a sort of convulsion of sickness and 
terror. | 

“Oh! No, no, no! Don’t comfort me, or any- 
thing. . . . I’ve got to brace up . . . If I let go 

. one minute .. . Pll scream!” 

Miss Waters felt that if Rosaleen screamed, she 
would go mad. With trembling hands she took off 
her jacket and hat, and laid them on a chair. 


182 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS — 


“Shall we give him some brandy?’ 

ishaven t anys 

“T’ll run out and get some.” 

Rosaleen blanched at the thought of waiting . 
alone with her sinister guest, but she gallantly 
agreed. And Miss Waters put on her things again 
and went, with weak knees and pounding heart, 
down the stairs to the street. She didn’t know where 
to get brandy; she stood irresolutely outside the 
house for a moment; then she hurried to the FINE 
FEATHERS’ shop and approached the elder partner, 
Miss Sillon. 

“TI want some brandy for a sick person!” she whis- 
pered. ‘Have you any?” | 

“Yes, I have!’ answered Miss Sillon. ‘What zs 
the matter, Miss Waters? You look absolutely 
done up. Who's sick?” 

“Oh, no one special!” cried Miss Waters, in 
mortal terror lest this acute young woman should 
penetrate the mystery. 

Miss Sillon asked no more questions, but fetched 
a small flask and gave it to Miss Waters. 

“Call on me, you know, if you want anything,” 
she said. “I’m awfully practical!” 

“Oh, no, thank you!” said Miss Waters. ‘I—I 
—TI have a trained nurse and a doctor waiting. . . .” 
Rosaleen let her in. 


AMONG THE ARTISTS 183 


33 


“He’s groaning now, 
sign, do you think?” 

Miss Waters shook her head. 

“Here’s the brandy,” she said. 

“How do you give it?’ asked Rosaleen. ‘‘With 
water? Hot? Out of a spoon?” 

Miss Waters reflected. Then she remembered 
often having seen in moving pictures flasks being 
held to the lips of injured persons. So Rosaleen 
lifted up his head and Miss Waters poured a little 
brandy down his throat. He opened his great black 
eyes and fixed her with a sombre, dreadful stare. 

iou,mercy: she cried. 

Rosaleen hastily laid his head back on the pillow 
and came round to look at him. 


she said. “Is that a good 


12 


“Mr. Iverson!’ she cried. ‘Are you better?” . 

He groaned and flung his arms across his face. 
And began to sob in a hoarse, heart-rending voice. 

“Oh, Lawrence dear!” she cried, kneeling down 
beside him. ‘What is the trouble? What can I 
do for you?” 

His great body was shaking with the violence of 
his sobs. Rosaleen put her arms about him. 

“Please don’t cry!” she entreated. 

She tried gently to take his arms away, so that 
she could see his face, but he resisted, and she was 
afraid to persist, for fear of hurting his bandaged 


184 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


wrist. She laid her cheek against his hands and 
clasped him tighter, suffering with him, in anguish 
at his despair. 
“Tell me!” she said. ‘““What can I do for you?’ 
Very slowly he took down his arms and let her 
see his awful face, his desperate and forlorn regard. 
“Well!” he said. ‘What do you imagine you 
can do? I’m going blind!” 


BOOK THREE: FORLORN 
ROSALEEN 


CHAPTER ONE 
I 


At first he couldn’t believe it. He thought it 
was; he followed her for two blocks; then he de: 
cided it wasn’t, and suddenly she had stopped to 
look in a shop window, and he knew. He was 
shocked. This the pretty, endearing kid of two 
years ago, this haggard, hollow-cheeked woman sa 
shabbily dressed, without gloves, with worn old 
boots, with that air of haste and anxiety! 

“Rosaleen!”’ he said. 

She whirled round and looked into his face with 
startled eyes. 

“Why!” she cried. “Mr. Landry!’ 

He took her little bare hand and looked down at 
her, distressed beyond measure by the change in the 
poor little thing. But smiling, to hide his disturb- 
ance. 

‘Where are you off to, in such a hurry?” he asked, 
“T’ve been trying to catch you up for a long time.” 


“Tm going home.” 
185 


186 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 

“Still living up-town?” 

“No; down in Washington Square.” 

He couldn’t endure to let go of her hand, he 
couldn’t endure the thought of losing her; the 
tenderness and affection he had felt for her two years 
ago came back a hundredfold now. A tenderness 
that wrung his heart. To see her so shabby, so thin, 
so anxious, and still with her lovely, luminous grey 
evess.c\ 615 

“Can’t I walk with you part of the way?’ he 
asked. 

“T was going in the ‘L’,” she said, doubtfully. 

“But you're not in a hurry? . . . Have you had 
lunch ?” 

“Oh, 1 couldn't!’ 

“Nonsense! Come on!” 

She wavered; and he instantly took advantage of 
her irresolution by taking her arm. 

“Please!” he said. ‘It’s Saturday, the one day 
I don’t have to hurry.” 

And, so afraid was he of any silence between 
them, that he began to talk about nothing; about 
how he had come up to Tiffany’s from his office, to 
see about a watch he was having repaired. About 
how fine the weather was for March, and how lively 
Fifth Avenue looked, and so on, until they were 
outside the little restaurant he had decided upon. 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 187 


“TY can’t, Mr. Landry! I look too—awful!” 

“Rosaleen, you couldn’t look awful. And if I 
don’t mind, I don’t believe anyone else will com- 
plain.” 

She followed him to a corner table and sat down, 
confused and embarrassed, opposite him. She was 
so conscious of her bare hands, her carelessly dressed 
hair. He ordered a substantial lunch, and then 
leaned across the table, to look at her. 

“You're much thinner,” he said. “Why? You 
don’t look well!” 

“Tm all right,” she said. ‘How are you?” 

“Tm not all right,” he answered. “Tve never 
been all right since I was fool enough to let you go.” 

“Oh, no!’ she said, with a bitter little smile. 
“Don’t pretend you’ve been thinking of me all the 
time. I know better!” 

“No,” he said, in his serious way. “I’m not say- 
ing I’ve thought of you all the time. What I mean 
is, that I realised long ago—that you were the— 
the right one—the only woman in the world for 
ese. 

She smiled again, but with tears in her eyes. 

“Let’s not be silly!” she said. ‘‘Let’s just be 
good friends. . . .” 

“No! . .. Look here, Rosaleen. . . . I wish I 
could tell you how I feel... . At first, PIl be — 


188 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


honest—At first I was angry. I felt that you hadn’t 
been fair with me. . . . I thought [d forget the 
whole thing. But I couldn’t. I wrote to you, twice. 
And then when you didn’t answer, I thought—it was 


ds 


over. It haunted me. I promise you, Rosaleen 

She laid her hand very lightly on his arm. 

“Please—let’s not bring it all up again?’ she 
said. “It zs all over. . . . Tell me how you've been 
getting on. You look—splendid.” 

And she really thought he did. He was well- 
dressed, he had a prosperous, an important air; he 
was no longer a boy, but a man, and a mighty self- 
confident man. , 

“Tm doing very well,” he said. ‘But I want to 
hear about you.”’ 

“Oh! ... Pm an artist!’ she said, laughing. 
“A regular professional artist.” 

“Are you? It doesn’t seem to agree with you.” 

“Tt isn’t the work that disagrees with me; it’s the 
not getting any work. I’m poor!” 

“Do you support yourself? Don’t you live with 
—those Humberts any longer?” 

She shook her head. 

“No,” she said. “You see ... Pm marred. 

“Rosaleen!”’ he cried. 

For a few moments he was silent, looking at her, 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 189 


filled with an immense regret, a remorse that stifled 
him. 

“Who?” he asked at last. 

“An artist.” 

“But—doesn’t the fellow support you? Doesn’t 
he—work?” 

“He tries. But he’s nearly blind.” 

“Good God! And you support him?” 

“T do the best I can. Only I’ve been sick.” 

“No!” he cried. ‘‘Rosaleen, this is horrible! 
What can I do to help you?” 

fm ont. she said. “You'll make me-cry.....,. 

- You—you make me so—so sorry for myself... .” 

They couldn’t finish their lunch, either of them. 
Landry paid the check, and they rose. But as 
she was passing out in front of him, he stopped her. 

“Rosaleen,’ he said. “They have very good 
chocolates here. You used to like chocolates. Let 
me get you a box!” 

But now she was crying, and he hastily turned 
with her into a quieter street. 

“No cause for tears!” he said, cheerfully. 

“T know it! . . . But (m—I’ma fool. ... Pm 
merveus, EP guess... .” 
“Tl take you home.” 
“No, I’d rather not, Mr. Landry!” 


“Don’t you want to see me again?” 


1909 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


“Yes, I do. Any evening—this evening, if you 
like.” . 
He wrote down the address. - 

“But I don’t like to let you go like this!’ he said. 
“T don’t think you’re fit. Let me get you a taxi?” 

“No, thanks, really I’m perfectly all right!” 

She smiled at him to convince him. And with 
a long hand clasp they separated. He stood look- 
ing after her, with a pity almost beyond his endur- 
ance. So this is what she had come to! Shabby, 
hungry, running about looking for work to support 
a blind husband. He could see before him the kid 
in the sailor blouse, in Miss Waters’ studio. . . . 

The girl he ought to have married. He could 
have spared her all this. It was hzs fault, all of it 
his fault. 

I 

THEY were living in the same studio Rosaleen 
had once shared with Enid and Dodo. And when 
Landry opened the door, he was rather impressed. 
Perhaps he had unconsciously expected a garret and 
the blind man lying on a pallet. And instead saw 
a large and imposingly artistic room, very dark in 
the corners, but with a circle of light from a red- 
shaded lamp on a table in the centre and Rosaleen 
and her husband sitting beside it. The husband, 
too, was much better than he had expected; he was 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 191 


really a very gentlemanly chap, and a good talker; 
nothing pitiful or destitute about him. One 
wouldn’t have suspected him of being blind. An 
immense, fat fellow with a tremendous voice, and 
a somewhat broad sense of humour. He talked to 
Landry about the opera, for that was the only form 
of art with which the young man was acquainted. 
He had a very decent cigar to offer him, and he 
mixed an excellent cocktail. 

Rosaleen, too, was different; she wore an em- 
broidered smock of dark red silk and she had bronze 
slippers and stockings, and her fine brown hair was 
- parted on one side and doubled under, to look like 
a short crop. Landry thought she looked quite as 
an artist’s wife ought to look, and charming, and 
adorable. She had scarcely said a word all the eve- 
ning; she had sat in silence while the two men 
talked, but he knew very well that she wasn’t listen- 
ing. She had an odd, preoccupied look in her eyes 
which he later came to know very well... . 

It was a mild and somewhat flavourless evening. 
When the time came for him to go, the husband 
invited him to come to lunch the following Satur- 
day, and he had said that he would. 

He went home in a queer mood; he was, although 
he didn’t know it, refusing to think at all, refusing 
to examine his impressions. 


192 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


III 


As he was walking over from the bus that next 
Saturday, he met her hurrying through Fourth 
Street, and he was really shocked at her appearance. 
Even an artist’s wife ought to be a little more par- 
ticular. She was hatless, with felt bedroom slippers 
on her feet, and her arms were filled with huge 
bundles from which protruded the feathery tops of 
carrots and celery leaves. The gay April breeze was 
blowing her soft untidy hair across her eyes, and 
at first she didn’t recognise him. 

“Oh, Mr. Landry!” she said. ‘Don’t look at 
me! ... Youshouldn’t come soearly .. .!” | 

There was a very great change in her; a greater 
one than he had realised before. She was not only 
thinner and paler and older looking; she was dif- 
ferent. That critical and childish look in her eyes 
had gone, that air of an observer; she was no longer 
looking on at life, she was én it, she was living. 

He took one of the immense bags and followed 
her upstairs. | 

And the studio, too, was revealed to him in its 
reality; the artistic glamour of it was gone in the 
daylight. In fact, it wasn’t a studio at all; there 
was, crowded into one corner, a small table on which 
Rosaleen’s drawing materials were neatly laid out 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 193 


on a blotter, but the other corners contained only 
sordid and common adjuncts to a poverty-stricken 
life; a cheap little bureau covered with a paltry lace 
scarf, a trunk masquerading as a table, a wooden 
egg crate in which were dozens of tins of tomatoes, 
bought at a sale. The distinguished artist himself 
was not what he had seemed; he was still handsome, 
still debonair, but he was wearing a dirty collar and 
a soiled white apron over a wrinkled suit. He was 
sitting beside a little gas stove on a table, on which 
was superimposed a portable oven with a glass door, 
and he was peering in with his extinguished eyes, 
so absorbed in his watching that he had to make a 
visible effort to arouse himself and to welcome 
Landry. 

“A la bonne heure!” he said, cordially. “I’ve 
made something which no man with a soul could 
resist. It will be ready at one sharp. A Galette, to 
be eaten hot, with a sauce of wine and cream. That, 
coftee of the best, and a marvellous little salad... . 
Eh?” | 

Landry answered without great enthusiasm; he 
wasn’t much interested in food. And immediately 
the conversation languished, the animation fled from 
Lawrence’s face; he became again crumpled and de- 
jected, until Rosaleen, who had been in the back 
room, returned and began asking him questions about 


194 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


the Galette. That started him; he talked and 
talked, and his talk was all of food—about methods 
of preparation—a subject upon which Landry was 
profoundly ignorant. The meals in his home were 
plain and not greatly varied, meat, poultry and 
game roasted or broiled, the more respectable vege- 
tables, an unobtrusive salad, innocent milky pud- 
dings, and those peculiar and delectable Southern 
hot breads. -When he ate in a restaurant he ordered 
very much the same things, and when he was the 
guest of someone very rich who set rare dishes be- 
fore him, he didn’t quite know what he was eating 
and cared still less. Such an idea as stuffing an egg- 
plant with chopped liver seemed to him fantastic 
and frivolous. 

The lunch was undoubtedly a good one, but it 
was ruined by Lawrence’s interminable culinary 
talk. There was no chance for a word with Rosa- 
leen; she seemed to have no other idea in her head 
but to “draw out” her tiresome husband, to encour- 
age him to bore their guest beyond toleration. 
Landry felt that this was hardly hospitable. 

At last he rose. 

“T’]1 have to be going,” he said. “It’s after three, 
and I have an engagement.” 

Lawrence shook his hand with tremendous 
cordiality. 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 195 


“Come again!” he said. ‘Take pity on a man 
_ who has very little left in life. Come often!” 

He turned toward Rosaleen, and Landry dis- 
tinctly saw a look of understanding pass between 
them which he didn’t like. 

“Tll walk as far as the corner with you,” said 
Rosaleen. “I have an errand.” 

And just as she was, she went out of the door 
with him. He stopped her at the head of the stairs. 

“You shouldn’t go out in those slippers, Rosa- 
leen! You'll catch cold... .” 

“But that’s just where I’m going!” she answered, 
laughing. ‘To the shoemaker’s to get my shoes. 
They’re being mended.” 

“But—” he began, and stopped. 

“But haven’t you more than one pair?’ he had 
been about to say. 

He couldn’t endure to see her running about the 
streets like this, hatless, in bedroom slippers, a 
neglected, pitiful creature who had lost her womanly 
pride. | 

All the circumstances of her life puzzled and dis- 
pleased him. There was something about it he 
couldn’t comprehend—that fat fellow with his cook- 
ing, the strained gallantry of Rosaleen’s bearing, the 
subtly unpleasant atmosphere which surrounded 


196 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


them. Even poverty couldn’t account for it, he 
thought. 

They had reached the corner, and Rosaleen 
stopped. 

“Mr. Landry!” she said. ‘Could you lend me 
ten dollars?” 

He pulled out his bill fold, handed her a bill, 
politely waved aside her thanks, and fled, hurrying 
from the sight of her. He felt really sick, with pity, 
with amazement, with an unconquerable disgust. 


CHAPTER TWO 
I 


Ripicutous! He had said that he wanted to 
help Rosaleen, and now, as soon as he had a chance, 
he was horribly upset. 

He sat down that very evening and wrote he a 
note. 


“Dear Rosaleen: 

“You must not be offended when IJ say that I have 
noticed that you are in straitened circumstances. I 
hope you look upon me, as I look upon you, as an 
old friend, and you must allow me the privilege of 
helping you. Do not hesitate to tell me at any time 
if you think I can be of use. 

“Always faithfully your friend, 
“Nicholas Landry.” 


And he enclosed a cheque. 

When he had addressed and sealed the letter, he 
sat back in his chair and contemplated his surround- 
ings with a frown. He had been writing at a little 
desk in the corner of the library; there beside the 


table in the centre of the room sat his august and 
197 


198 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


benevolent aunt, in her discreet black dinner gown, 
embroidering. Through the open door he could see 
young Caroline in the next room sitting before the 
piano, hands idle in her lap, her face upturned to 
the young man standing beside her. . . . It hurt 
him intolerably. Now, when he would have been 
able to give to his wife—not a setting quite so 
luxurious as this, but at least peace, dignity, and 
comfort, he was compelled to see this beloved crea- 
ture in degrading and sordid poverty. 

He had done remarkably well. He had had a 
small legacy from an uncle. His sister had whim- 
pered a litt'e when he refused to spare her the price 
of one new dress from it, but she had soon been 
brought to approve his severity. He had known 
where to place his money; it had gone into a grow- © 
ing young firm of ship brokers, and himself with it, 
and he saw ahead of him just the future he had 
planned. | 

The financial future, that is. But not the home 
he had imagined. He was not a man easily at- 
tracted by women; in fact, he rather disliked them. 
He was not impressionable, not emotional; he was 
one of those absurd and incredible creatures capable 
of loving one woman all through life. And not 
through any conscious and pompous effort, either. 
He saw plainly that he would never want anyone 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 199 


_ but Rosaleen, and he saw, too, with equal plain- 
ness, that he could not have her. The idea of in- 
triguing to win her from her husband never entered 
his head. He would not even say to himself that 
he loved her; he simply said that he regretted her, 
bitterly, profoundly. His point of view was either 
honourable or sentimental, whichever way you 
- choose to see it, but it was sincere. He didn’t de- 
ceive himself; but he saw not the faintest danger 
of any catastrophe. He knew he could trust himself 
to go on seeing Rosaleen, just as he knew he could 
trust her. He was not at all afraid of this woman 
who borrowed money from him. Instead, he said 
to himself— 

“Thank God I’ve got something to give her!” 


II 


No answer came to his letter; in fact, it was never 
answered and never mentioned by either of them. 
The cheque dropped into that bottomless pit which 
was their household exchequer. 

A week later he decided to stroll down to the 
Square, and perhaps to visit Rosaleen. . . . It was 
a wonderful Spring evening, filled with that cruel 
promise, that hope never defined, never fulfilled, 
that wayward melancholy that is the spirit of every 


200 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


such hour. It touched Landry profoundly; the cries 
of the children at play sounded plaintive in his ears; 
he even saw a futile pathos in the street lights that 
glowed so blatantly against a sky not yet entirely 
darkened. There was a faint breeze blowing, and 
in the little park the swelling branches of the bare 
young trees swayed mildly. 

He went upstairs, to find the studio door open and 
a party going on, the room crowded and turbulent. 
Lawrence recognised him at once, and welcomed him 
with delight. : 

“Just in time!’ he cried. ‘‘Put your hat and stick 
in the back room and come in and get a drink!” 

Still aloof and enchanted by the Spring night, 
Landry somewhat reluctantly obeyed, and pushing 
aside the curtain, entered that private apartment 
into which he had observed Rosaleen disappearing 
from time to time. A horrible little black hole with 
nothing in it but a wide bed with sagging springs 
that nearly touched the floor, and, all round the 
walls, hooks upon which hung the motley clothes of 
the household. Nothing else; no rug on the floor, 
nor a chair; evidently all the rest of their earthly 
possessions had gone into the big studio. 

He laid his hat and stick on the ragged white 
counterpane, and returned to the party. The key 
to the situation was not in his hands; he saw none 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 201 


of the pathos of it; he saw merely a crowd of noisy 
and vulgar people who were drinking too much, 
making too much of a row, dancing with abandon 
to the music of a wretched phonograph. Rosaleen 
hurried about, an anxious hostess, changing records, 
filling glasses, talking to this one and that; now and 
then she danced, but perfunctorily. No one paid 
much attention to her. She wore the same dark red 
silk smock and bronze slippers she had worn on the 
evening of his first visit, but by the garish light of 
four gas jets, he could see now how worn and shabby 
this finery was. 

But there was a great deal which he could not 
see. He could not see the frightful fear of solitude 
in Lawrence’s heart which made him welcome this 
riff-raff, these people who could be raked in at an 
hour’s notice, lured by whiskey, by the perfect free- 
dom allowed them. None of his old friends came 
any more, or Rosaleen’s. They had lost their foot- 
ing, and they knew it well. But Lawrence didn’t 
care, so long as there was noise and life about him, 
so long as he was not alone. And Rosaleen, in her 
unbounded pity for him, would have watched devils 
dancing there with joy if it had given him comfort. 

Landry was completely out of his element. He 
was really miserable. The punch was not good, the 
floor was sticky, the girls were hectic and peculiar; 


202 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


he was very anxious to get away, but without offend- 
ing Rosaleen. He saw her hurry into the back room 
and, as he was standing near the curtains, it was easy 
to slip in after her, unnoticed. 

“Rosaleen,” he began, but stopped in surprise. 
“Why are you putting on your hat?” 

“T’m going out,” she said. 

“Tt’s nearly eleven. Where are you going?” 

“Oh! ... To the delicatessen!” she cried, with 
the first trace of irritability he had yet seen in her. 

“Now?” 

“Yes, now!’ she cried, and he was amazed to see 
tears in her eyes. ‘“‘Why do you Jother me so? Let 
me alone!” 

“T don’t want to bother you, Rosaleen,” he said. 
“But—if you’re going alone, let me come.” 

“No,” she said. “You can’t. They'd all notice.” 

“Let them! You surely don’t care for the opin- 
ion of that crew! And anyway, they'll think I’ve 
gone home.” 

She had got her hat on now. 

“Come on, then!” she said, and led him through 
a door hidden by hanging coats and wraps, into the 
hall. 

She went furiously fast, and they didn’t exchange 
a word all the way to Sixth Avenue. She entered a 
brilliantly lighted shop with a white tiled floor and 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 203 


advanced to the high glass counter. And began 
ordering the most amazing list—soap, bread, pickles, 
salad, cake, bacon. It made a huge bundle. Landry 
tried to take it from her. 

“No!” she said. ‘You said you were going 
home!” 

“T’ll take you to the door first. Rosaleen, give 
me that package and don’t be so disagreeable! 
What’s the trouble?” , 

“Tm fired!” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean 
to be nasty, Mr. Landry!” 

She let him take the bundle, and they began to 
retrace their steps. 

“You are an extraordinary girl!” he said. “I 
can’t understand you. Do you always do your mar- 
keting a little before midnight?” 

“T do it when J can!” she answered, with a sigh. 
“When I can get the money for it.” 

‘“But—’ he began, but stopped short. Had she 
got the money at that party? And from whom? 


III 


He couldn't help talking about it. He began at 
breakfast the next morning, to his aunt. 

“T’ve come across a very sad case,”’ he said. ‘Girl 
I used to know some time ago. And now she’s 


204 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


married to an artist—rather prominent in the past, 
but now he’s going blind. And they’re as poor as 
possible. What can you do to help, in a case like 
that?” 

Mrs. Allanby reflected. 

“Aren’t there societies, dear, to help needy 
artists?” 

“They don’t want charity!” he said, with his 
quick frown. 

“What do they want?’ 

He regretted having brought up the subject now. 
But his aunt could not be stopped. 

“Can’t the wife do something to help? Perhaps 
Ah could get someone interested in the case. If 
you'll give me the name and address, Nick. . . .” 

“No! That’s not what I meant. I wanted you 
to think of some way that I could do something for 
them.” 

“T don’t suppose they’d care where the help came 
from} dear’ boys Oa! 

“But I would!” he said, angrily. 

“You would?” she said, and then was silent, with 
a tact a shade too obvious. He was heartily sorry 
he had ever mentioned the thing. 

His food seemed to choke him, when he thought 
of Rosaleen in want. He felt gross, decadent, 
pampered, when he thought of her running through 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 205 


the streets in her slippers, carrying immense pack- 
ages. He began, ridiculously, to deprive himself of 
things. It somehow gave him consolation to make 
himself less comfortable. 

He wrote to her again, and enclosed a larger 
cheque. (He the prudent, the practical!) 


“Dear Rosaleen: 

“You must let me help you. If you won’t think 
of yourself, think of others. You will wear your- 
self out, living like this. Tell me how I can be of 
service.” 


| This letter, too, was never answered, and when 

four days had gone by, he decided to go down there 
and see for himself how things were going. It was 
a bright, quiet Sunday and he had contemplated 
asking her to go for a walk, so that they could have 
a serious talk. But he found Lawrence sitting alone 
in the studio. 

“Rosaleen’s gone out,” he said. “I’m alone, and 
you can’t imagine how I dislike being alone. Sit 
down and talk to me, won’t you? Of course I quite 
realise that I’m not the magnet, and so on, but never- 
theless... Eh?” 

In common decency, Nick was obliged to comply. 

“Do you know,” Lawrence went on, ‘‘one of the 


206 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


worst things about this thing is the monstrous jeal- 
ousy it brings out. I’m jealous of Rosaleen. Not 
as a husband, you understand; I’m not eapable of 
that. I’ve never been able to understand it. Why 
distress oneself so inordinately for the frail crea- 
tures? Why not expect the worst? No, I’m jealous 
of her because she can see and I can’t. And she 
doesn’t need to see. . . . I hate her for it, some- 
times. . . . Good God! ...I’m growing worse 
and worse. Everything is hazy now, as if there were 
a film over my eyes. It—maddens me. I’m always 
trying to brush it away. .. .” 

He groaned, and drew his hand across his fore- 
head. 

“Let me grumble, young man!” he said. “Try 
to listen to me with a little human compassion. Try 
to think what it means—not to see.” 

“Yes,” said Landry. ‘I knew two or three chaps 
in the army...” 

“Oh, asses! Young, healthy lustful animals, 
filled with their illusion that they’ve saved the world 
with their blindness. But me! What comfort have 
I? Landry, if I were God Himself, I couldn’t in- 
vent anything more exquisitely hideous than that— 
to make an artist blind! An artist, who lives—who 
feeds himself on colour, whose ecstasy is in a line, 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 207 


whose heart and soul are only to be reached through 
his eyes. . . . What an idea, eh?” 

“Yes,” said Landry. “It must be pretty bad.” 

But still he couldn’t help feeling more sorry for 
those young chaps he had known, blinded in the 
war, who had had to renounce all the pleasant ways 
of life. A fellow like Lawrence, with a brain, a 
fellow who could falk, didn’t, somehow, seem as 
pitiful to him as those inarticulate, suffering boys. 
Lawrence was queer, he was eccentric, and he no 
doubt had queer and eccentric consolations unknown 
to those others. He sympathised with Lawrence; 
certainly. But his mind strayed to Rosaleen. 

Where had she gone? And with whom? He 
thought about it with growing uneasiness. At last 
he took the bull by the horns. 

“Where has Rosaleen gone?” he asked, in a tone 
as Bohemian and casual as he could make it. 
“With a new man,” said Lawrence. “A gentle- 
manly illustrator. Ah, well! . .. What can one 
expect ?” , 

Just as Lawrence was beginning one of his terri- 
ble dissertations on cooking, there was a knock at 
the door, and a curly haired young man entered. He 
asked for Rosaleen without ceremony. 

“Out with Brindell, taking a walk,” said Law- 
rence. “Sit down, Matthews, and have a drink!” 


208 ROSALEEN AMONG. THE ARTISTS 


His manner was a curious blend of contempt and 
a terribly anxious hospitality. He despised these 
two young men, but he wished above all things to 
keep them there to talk to. Ambrose Matthews was 
a little more to his liking than Landry; he was able 
to see his point of view, and to discuss in all its 
subtle intricacies the anguish of the unfortunate 
artist. This never failed to astound Landry. He 
didn’t see what possible comfort it could be to Law- 
rence to dissect his sufferings, to describe so vividly 
as to re-live his most horrible moments. 

“T should think you'd rather try to forget it,” he 
observed, rather bluntly. 

Ambrose Matthews explained. 

“My dear fellow, that’s the worst possible course. 
To repress, to conceal, and all that sort of thing. 
. . . What we need is to drag everything out into 
the sunlight. There the weeds will perish and the 
hardy plants thrive.” | 

“Sunlight doesn’t kill weeds,” said Lawrence. ‘“T 
don’t talk for the benefit of my psyche, or my sub- 
conscious self, or my soul; I talk because it interests 
me.” 

Landry got up. 

“T’ll have to be getting along!” he said. “Will 
you tell Rosaleen I’m sorry I missed her? . . . Is 
there anything I can do for you before I go?” 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 209 


“You might run in next door and get me a pack- 
age of cigarettes,” said Lawrence. “I’ve begun to 
smoke.” 

Resentful and sulky, Landry did this, and when 
he returned with them, he found Ambrose Matthews 
waiting for him. 

“Tl walk a part of the way with you,” he said, 
and, as was his habit, took his companion’s arm. 

“You haven’t seen Rosaleen’s latest, have you?” 
he asked. 

“Latest what?’ demanded Landry, stiffly. 

“Latest—I don’t know what to call us. Latest 
One to Be Borrowed From. He’s the fifth, to my 
knowledge. And why do we doit? She’s not even 
grateful. It’s an interesting case.” 

Landry withdrew his arm, under the pretext of 
lighting a cigarette. 

“Not so interesting for her,” he said. ‘Poor 
girl!” 

“It’s a sort of perverted sex instinct,” said Am- 
brose. ‘Her training has been so repressive that 
she’s afraid to accept love, so she substitutes 


b 


money ; 

“Rot!” said Landry, violently. ‘It’s nothing but 
an ‘instinct’ to get something to eat for herself and 
her husband.” 


210 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS. 


Then Ambrose said that it was perhaps a per- 


verted maternal instinct. 
“She ought to have had children,” he said. ‘As 


it is, she lavishes on him the maternal love she would 
have given to them.” 

“She’s not perverted at all,” said Landry. ‘“What 
you choose to call perverted is what J call—good.”’ 


IV 


But it worried him frightfully. He made up his 
mind to remonstrate with Rosaleen, and he wrote . 
her another note. 


“Will you meet me at the Ritz at four to-mor- 
tow? I want to talk to you alone for a few minutes, 
please.”’ 


At breakfast the next morning came her answer. 


“Dear Mr. Landry: Please don’t ask me to do 
that. J never do. You can always see me here 
whenever you like. 


Rody 


This astonished him. He hadn’t expected any 
objection. He felt suddenly desolate and unhappy; 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 21 


he felt that he was not Rosaleen’s own particular 
friend, who could be permitted all privileges; she 
was treating him as she would any man; he was 
simply one of a crowd... . 

But he went, that same evening. The studio was 
crowded with people, most of whom he had seen 
there before. But there was one man whom he did 
not know, but whom he knew must be the gentle- 
manly illustrator. A well-dressed, nice-looking 
young chap, with a silent air of observing, not too 
favourably, all that went on before him. And his 
eyes followed Rosaleen all the time, and for her 
and her only he had a quick and subtle smile. 

A feeling which he refused to recognise took pos- 
session of Landry, a rage that shook the very founda- 
tion of his self-control. He went over to the corner 
where they stood talking. 

“You promised to talk to me alone!” he said, with 
a manner he had never used before in his life—an 
outrageous insolence. ‘Come out and walk round 
the park, will you?’ 

Brindell looked at him, at first astonished, and 
then very angry. 

“Who the devil is this?” he asked, turning to 
Rosaleen. 

“An old, old friend,” said Rosaleen, hastily. “Ex- 


212 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


cuse me, please, Mr. Brindell, just for a few 
minutes ?” 
“Come on! Put on your hat and coat 


19? 
e 


said 
Landry. 

Rosaleen shook her head. 

“No; we can talk in here,” she said, and led him 
into the back room. “Mr. Landry, what made you 
so rude?” 

“Do you borrow money from that—popinjay?” 
he demanded. 

He was glad to see the shocked colour that rose 
in her thin face; he wanted and intended to be out- 
rageous. 

““You—haven’t any right to talk like that!’ she 
Cried. 7; ie | 

“T have. I’ve lent you money. You're under ob- 
ligations to me. . . . I won’t have you doing this! 
Haven’t you any pride? Any self-respect ?” | 

“Hush! Don’t talk so loud! ...Oh, Mr. 
Landry, how can you!” 

“Haven’t you any decency?’ he went on, furi- 
ously. “You're common talk, you and your 


‘friends.’ I’m ashamed of you!” 

“Mr. Landry!” she cried, amazed. ‘‘What’s the 
matter with you?’ | 

“I’m disgusted!’ he said) ia 

He looked at her, standing before him, the 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 213 


harassed and solitary creature who had endured so 
much, who suffered such indignities without being 
overwhelmed. There she was, in her mountebank 
costume, her red smock, her bronze slippers, with her 
pale and anxious face. . . . He thought of the com- 
plexity, the mystery of these dealings she had had 
with men, and he hated her. 

“Tm through with you!” he said. 

He pulled down his hat from the hook where he 
always left it, and opened the door into the hall. 

“No! . .. Mr. Landry!” she whispered, clutch- 
ing athiscoat. ‘“‘Don’t! Please don’t go like this!” 

But he looked at her with a glance so scornful and 
full of loathing that she dropped her hands hastily. 

But before he had got to the street door, she came 
running down the stairs after him; he heard the 
clop-clop of her slippers, which were too large and 
left her foot at every step. 

wire eandry!’ she cried. “Please! . . . I don’t 
want you to misjudge me . . . I thought you would 
understand !”’ | 

“T don’t!”’ he said, briefly. 

“But what else can I do? How can we live?’ 

“Does your husband know that you do—this?” 

“Of course!” she cried, astonished. ‘‘He’s the 
_ one who—he asks me to.” 
They were standing outside the door of what had 


214 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


been Lawrence’s old studio; the hall was entirely 
dark; he couldn’t see her at all. That made her 
voice seem quite different; it reached him a disem- 
bodied sound, miraculously sad. 

“T never meant to tell anyone,” she said. “But 
now Id like to tell you. It’s wrong. It’s weak. I 
ought just to do what I think right and not care if I 
am misunderstood. But I can’t.” 

She was still a moment. 

“Let’s go into the tea room downstairs. Miss 
Gosorkus is upstairs and I don’t think there’ll be 
anyone there.” 


CHAPTER THREE 
I 


Tuey sat there for hours, at a tiny table, in a 


corner of the dimly lighted shop, crowded with 


od 


miscellaneous objects, embroidered smocks, brass 
candlesticks, pictures, books, curios, baskets. The 
red curtains were drawn across the windows, the 
door was closed; they were undisturbed, isolated 
during the course of that most pathetic of human 
struggles—that forever unsuccessful effort of one 
soul to explain itself to another. With utter earnest- 
ness, sincerity, with justice and compassion for Law- 
tence, Rosaleen tried to give Landry the story of 
her marriage. She had only one motive—that this 
man should not think her worse than she was. She 
felt that if he could be brought to see why she had 
done this and that, he would no longer blame her. 
She wished to make him see how inevitable it had 
all been. 

She began with the day that Lawrence had come 
to her room to kill himself. She and Miss Waters 
had tended him with frightened assiduity all the 
afternoon, but in vain. His malady was beyond 


their reach. His malady was despair. He had been 
215 


216 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


through an experience that day which had wrecked 
his soul. The doctor had told him that he was going 
blind, and that nothing could prevent it. 

Terror had seized him. He had thought at once 
of the only person he knew who was capable of sus- 
tained and disinterested kindness, and he had fled 
to Rosaleen, to die in her compassionate presence. 
His attempt, however, wasn’t successful, whether 
from lack of knowledge or from reluctance even he 
himself never knew. He hadn’t really harmed him- 
self at all; the blood-letting seemed in fact to make 
him feel better, to clear his brain. He could per- 
fectly well have got up and walked off at any mo- 
ment, but he preferred to lie with closed eyes, | 
savouring his anguish. And permitting an exquisite 
sense of consolation to creep into his soul. 

Rosaleen and Miss Waters worked desperately 
over him; they washed his face with cold water 
again and again. They made tea for him, and toast, 
and the smell of the toast revived him. He ate it, 
mournfully, still with his eyes closed. They bathed 
his forehead with Rosaleen’s cherished ‘Florida 
water.” Once Miss Waters laid her cottony-white 
head on his chest, to listen to his heart, but being 
too modest to unbutton his waistcoat, she didn’t ob- 
tain much information. However, she knew it was 
the thing to do, and it impressed Rosaleen. 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 217 


He lay there for two days; a most embarrassing 
situation. Miss Waters came to stop with Rosaleen, 
and they slept on the floor of the studio, because 
Rosaleen said it might make him think he was caus- 
ing trouble if they pulled the other cot out of the 
room where he lay. The thought of causing trouble, 
however, was not one of Lawrence’s worries. He 
would wake up in the night and groan, so horribly 
that Rosaleen and Miss Waters would cling to each 
other and weep. He asked for wines and delicacies 
which they could ill afford. But his selfishness made 
him all the more appealing to Rosaleen. 

On the third day, late in the afternoon, he got up, 
bathed, shaved, and dressed. Rosaleen disposed him 
in the wing chair, and went to the corner to fetch 
cigarettes for him. 

‘What would you like for dinner?” she asked. 

He said he didn’t care; anything nice... . 

“Won't you take something now?” she entreated. 
‘A nice hot cup of cocoa?” 

“No; not cocoa.” | 

He sighed and-once more closed his eyes, which 
frightened Rosaleen. 

‘What can I do for you?” she asked. 

“Stay near me!” he said. “Don’t leave me 


$99 


alone! 


218 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


“Of course I won’t!” she answered. 

He stayed there in the studio for nearly three 
weeks, sitting about in his dressing gown, smoking 
and reading. One day he ordered a taxi and sent 
Rosaleen to the flat where he had been living, to 
fetch him a long list of things, including his paint- 
ing materials, and when she returned, he set up his 
easel and began to work. 

“‘T may have six months more, you know,” he said. 
“T can see almost as well as ever now. ‘The colours 
aren’t quite so clear, perhaps. . . .” 

Rosaleen was delighted to see him taking an in- 
terest in something; she had for so long looked upon 
him as an invalid, almost unable to move, for whose 
recovery she was more or less responsible. She felt 
that this new interest in his work might serve to 
rouse him from that apathy which so distressed and 
alarmed her. She sat watching him, with affection, 
with admiration. He was singing to himself, in a 
deep, growling basso, and working just as she had 
seen him working in his studio downstairs. .. . 
When suddenly he flung down the brushes and fell 
on his knees, so heavily that the room shook. 

“Oh, my God!’ he cried. 9" Tican t) peat anaen 
can’t live! ... . It’s going from met). .) aegins er 


0? 


me die! Letmedie... ! 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 219 


She had rushed across the room and was on her : 
knees beside him. 

“Lawrence!” she cried. ‘Dear Lawrence! Don’t 
give way! Don’t take it so hard! They say that 
bl—that people who can’t see are very happy. 
You'll find other things—all sorts of other things— 
to interest you!” 

“Be quiet!” he cried, sternly. ‘‘Don’t dare to tell 
me such things! 

He rose heavily to his feet and went over to the 
window. 

“Tf it had come at once!” he said. “If every- 
_ thing had been blotted out at one stroke, I could 
have endured it. . . . But to see it coming on, to 
know what’s going to happen. . . . No!” he cried, 
suddenly. ‘I won’t stand it! I won't try!” 

For weeks Rosaleen had no other thought but to 
try to comfort him. She was glad to use what re- 
mained of her five hundred dollars to buy him the 
things he wanted. His tastes were luxurious, above 
all, in matters of eating and drinking; he liked quail 
or sweetbreads for breakfast, and for dinner exotic 
things of which she had never heard before. And 
he wished a glass of good white port every day with 
his lunch. And what he asked for she got, if it were 


in any way possible. 


220 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


8 | 


SHE made no attempt to explain to Landry her 
reasons for marrying Lawrence. It had been with 
her purely a spiritual matter, a valiant effort at 
consoling him. The material aspects of the thing 
didn’t trouble her; she didn’t even regard it as a 
sacrifice. She knew that she didn’t love him as she 
had loved Nick Landry; she had felt for him only 
that kindly affection she was ready to feel for any 
human creature. But she believed that in marrying 
him she would be doing something worthy, some- 
thing of use; that she would be serving God. 

Lawrence didn’t know this; he honestly believed 
that Lawrence Iverson, even if he were blind and 
penniless, was a brilliant match for Rosaleen. 

They were married at City Hall, with no friend 
present except Miss Waters, who wept all the time, 
and they went back to the studio, to take up their 
joint life there without any sort of festivity, any 
celebration. Lawrence had said that he could not 
stand it, that he was in no mood for that sort 
of thing; but as a matter of fact, he was ashamed 
of Rosaleen. He would have been proud to be her 
lover, but he was ashamed to be her husband. He 
didn’t mention that he was married to anyone; there 
were no announcements sent out, no notice in the 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 224 


paper. No one sent a present, except Miss Waters; 
no one came to call upon Rosaleen. 

Lawrence had been just emerging from Bohem- 
ianism to the respectability of success. He had lived 
with order and comfort; he had been invited about, 
flattered, more or less “lionized.” But he was not 
yet really established; he had no solid footing in 
that upper world, that “‘society” he so worshipped. 
He had no prestige to give Rosaleen, even if he had 
wished to do so. As a matter of fact, he carefully 
concealed the fact of his marriage from all these 
people. 

The first invitation he got after the wedding was 
to a tea. 

“You haven’t got anything suitable to wear,” he 
told her. “I'll have to go alone.” 

After establishing this precedent, he found it quite 
easy. He never suggested her accompanying him. 

He was still fairly nice to Rosaleen in those days, 
although he was beginning to grow exasperated with 
her. She insisted upon being always his servant; 
never his friend, his comrade. She was always con- 
strained; she never talked freely about what inter- 
ested her; instead she was forever anxious to hearten 
and encourage Lawrence, to “draw him out’; she 
pretended to be interested in what interested 
him. He knew that she was prepared to endure 


222 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


everything, to forgive everything, out of compassion, 
and it was intolerable. He could never reach her; 
he could never make any sort of impression upon 
her; the coarsest talk made no stain on her heart, no 
evil knowledge could disturb her; she was incorrupt- 
ible, by reason of her divine stupidity. 

His gentleness vanished; he allowed himself to 
be as irritable as he pleased. He could still see well 
enough, but he had been forbidden to use his eyes, 
and he was like a caged animal. He used to walk , 
up and down the studio, groaning. 

‘How are we going to live?” he demanded, one 
day. | 

“T think I can get work,” said Rosaleen, promptly, 
‘if you won’t mind being left alone part of the 
time?” | 

“Do it then! Do it!” he cried. 

She tried, she tried faithfully, but her work was 
no longer good. She was too anxious to please. A 
blight had settled on her, her fancy was destroyed, 
her developing facility with her pencil was checked, 
and she had not had sufficient experience to go on 
without thought or effort, like a machine. She made 
next to nothing; and the day came, inevitably, when 
there was no money left. Lawrence had come home 
from somewhere in a taxi, and there hadn’t been 


~FORLORN ROSALEEN 222 


enough in his pocket to pay the tariff. He had come 
upstairs to ask Rosaleen for three dollars. 

She had handed him a five dollar bill. 

“It’s all I have,” she said. “All I have to buy 
dinner with... .” | 

“What!” he bellowed. ‘No more? What do 
you do with what you earn? Eh?” 


“T don’t earn very much, Lawrence. And I use 


9 


it to pay for things 
He went down and paid the chauffeur. Then he 
re-entered the room and went over to the table where 
she was working. He snatched up the card she had 
been painting—three fat robins on a telephone wire, 
with nine gold bells underneath bearing the letters 
of Merry Xmas. | 

“Painting?” he said. “Thzs is painting , eh? 
Good God! .. . This going on in the room with 
me! ... Rosaleen, you are no longer an artist. It’s 
too blasphemous!” 

He picked up her four cherished camel’s hair 
brushes and snapped them into bits; then he tore up 
her cards and took up all the debris he had made, 
together with her paint box and her blocks of paper, 
and threw it all out of the window. 

“Finished!” he said. ‘Go back to your pots and 


19 


pans, wench, and leave such matters to your betters! 


224 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


CII 


It had seemed to her sometimes that he was not 
a human being at all. She was not able to tell what 
was buffoonery and what was real. If there were 
anything real in him... . It filled) her~ with 
despair; she wondered if she had really done him 
any good. And when she doubted that, there was no 
foundation left for her life. If it hadn’t helped 
him, then all her misery was in vain, the terrible 
years which stretched before her would be filled with 
a pain quite useless, quite barren. 

Her health began to fail. The irregular life, the 
fantastic meals Lawrence insisted upon, the noisy 
parties which kept her up night after night until 
almost dawn, the unceasing anxiety and unhappiness 
were too much for her. She did her very best; she 
was kind, patient, and loyal; she struggled to stifle 
her dreadful regrets, her disillusionment, she clung 
desperately to the one belief that kept her from abso- 
lute despair, the belief that she was indispensable, 
that Lawrence needed her and could not do without 
her. } 

He had singularly few friends. He knew almost 
every artist of reputation, but casually. He had 
been engrossed in his desire to enter society, and he 
hadn’t troubled much with his colleagues. His chief 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 225 


object in “entering society”’ had been to find a rich 
wife; and although he knew that any such thing 
would now have been impossible, still he blamed 
Rosaleen in his heart. 

At last he had started this infernal “borrowing.” 
And Rosaleen had consented. It outraged her pride, 
her self-respect, her dignity; but it didn’t seem 
wicked to her. She thought that perhaps it was her 
duty to sacrifice this pride and self-respect for the 
sake of her husband. One man after the other. . . 

Landry interrupted her. 

“Didn’t they ever make love to you?” he asked, 
brutally. ‘‘Didn’t they expect anything in return? 
Or were they all fools—like me?” 

“T hardly know!” she said. wearily. “I never 
bothered. . . . I only had to get money. .. .” 

“Which you knew you couldn’t repay. That 
didn’t bother you either, did it?” 

“Yes, it did! But I always hoped and hoped 
that some day I could, in some way. Mr. Landry, 
what was I to do?” 

“There are women who'd rather die than be dis- 
honourable.” 

Her pale face flushed again. 

“T wouldn’t have done it for myself,” she said. 
“T wouldn’t have thought of such a thing. . . . But 
I couldn’t let Lawrence want!” 


226 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


Landry stood up. 

“Listen to me, Rosaleen!” he said. ‘““There’s just 
one hope for you. Either you leave this demoralis- 
ing, degrading atmosphere at once—or 

“Or what?” she asked, with interest. 

“Or else ’'m done with you.” 

She shook her head sadly. 

“No,” she said. “It’s no use talking like that. 
I shouldn’t dream of leaving him, ever. I only 


33 


wanted you to understand. I couldn’t bear for you 
not to. But I see that you don’t. Do you, Mr. 
Landry?” 

“IT don’t know!” he said, miserably. 

They were silent for a very long time. The ceil- 
ing shook from the dancing feet in the studio over- 
head, but no sound reached them. They were com- 
pletely isolated in there, behind the drawn red cur- 
tains. At last Rosaleen looked up. 

“Anyway,” she said. “I think the best thing is— 
not to see each other any more.” 

She waited. 

“Don’t you?” she asked. 

He regarded her, the unhappy wife, the victim of 
so many peoples’ selfishness, and it suddenly 
occurred to him that after all, she wasn’t much more 
than a young girl. Only twenty-four. . .. The 
thought startled him. She was so young, so friend- 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 227 


less, and yet so strong. She hadn’t gone under, she 
was not destroyed. What did that wretched ‘“‘bor- 
rowing’ amount to anyway? How had he dared 
reproach her with it? . . . He felt as if he could 
never take his eyes from that worn face, with its 
beautiful honesty and benevolence. After all, there 
must be some force in her forlorn youth that was 
greater than intellect, more irresistible than beauty, 
something indestructible, beyond his comprehen- 
myer. *. 

He turned away, dazzled by his vision. 

“Yes,” he said. “It zs best!” 


CHAPTER FOUR 
I 


RosALEEN went upstairs to the studio, where the 
party was still going on. It didn’t seem possible; 
she felt as if days had gone by, almost as if she were 
a ghost coming back from another world. Nothing 
had happened, and yet everything had changed. 
Still the same row, the same love-making, the same 
hectic gaiety. Apparently no one had noticed her 
hours’ absence; she didn’t count, anyway, except to 
Mr. Brindell, and he had long ago gone home. 

She went on with her superfluous hospitality. She 
was neither sleepy nor tired, nor was she in any way 
annoyed by the prolongation of the party. She was 
willing to continue indefinitely, winding up the pho- 
nograph, filling glasses, now and then dancing with 
a solitary man; she was in a waking dream, com- 
pletely indifferent to the real world about her. 


II 


LawRENCE was sleeping soundly. Very cau- 


tiously Rosaleen got up and barefooted made her 
228 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 229 


way across the dusty floor of the studio to a chair 
near the window. 

It was very early, not yet five o’clock; before her 
lay the Square, lonely and calm under a pallid sky 
across which filmy white clouds went flying. She 
could see, faintly, the strong white arch and beyond 
it the long, misty avenue, where the rows and rows 
of lights still gleamed. Her mind was working 
rapidly and futilely, spinning like a wheel in a void. 
She saw everything, observed everything, with 
remarkable vividness. She heard two men’s voices 
come suddenly out of the early morning quiet, talk- 
ing loudly in Italian, they began abruptly, from 
nowhere, with a ringing sound of footsteps; they 
disappeared as abruptly and left the square as quiet 
as before. 

Yes; of course! It was Nick Landry she wanted 
to think about, that dear boy with his quiet laugh 
that was balm to her soul after the sneers, the guf- 
faws, the hysteric shrieks she was obliged to hear 
every day. Nick with his fastidious ways, his 
reserve so like her own, with his divine youth. .. . 
She recalled with a smile his lean, dark face, his 
quick frown, his voice, his gestures. She allowed 
herself to dwell upon him, to think of him with 
undisguised tenderness and pain, because it was her 
farewell to him. He was like herself. He would 


230 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


not come any more. He was like herself: they 
would not meet again; he felt as she did, about this, 
and about all other things. The difference between 
him and all these others with their Right to Love, 
their Right to Happiness, their Right to One’s Own 


Life! Both Nick and herself considered above all . 


the Right of Other People to exist unmolested— 
Lawrence’s Rights, for instance. .. . 

Lawrence had shouted with laughter over those 
cheques from Nick. He had called him a sentimen- 
talist. He said, and Ambrose Matthews said, and 
Enid said, and so many of the others said, that 
sentimentality was the curse of the world; that 
muddle-headed, umreasoning sentimentality was 
what ruined people’s lives. That the thing, to be 
desired, the great panacea, was clear-sightedness, 
was enlightened self-interest. And yet Lawrence 
existed through her sentimentality and that of the 
good-humoured fellows who had ent their money. 
It was sentimentality .which had caused Nick to 
help them, which now caused them to part. .. . 

Rosaleen observed that this fiercely scorned and 
detested sentimentality very often caused people 
to act with the greatest nobility. While common- 
sense and enlightened self-interest seemed fre- 
quently to bring forth incredible baseness. 

She thought of things quite new to her; she saw 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 231 


lire in a new, a larger way. She saw the desolate 
and bitter goal toward which her road led; and she 
was ready to set out on that road. It was the high 
moment of her life. It was the great triumph of 
her spirit, so horribly wounded, so valiant. 


She was startled by the harsh voice of Lawrence, 
and turning she saw him standing in the doorway of 
the back room, in his dressing gown. 

“What the devil are you doing?” he asked. 
“Why did you get up at this time? It’s just struck 
five.” 

“Nothing,” said Rosaleen. ‘“Just—thinking. I 
couldn’t get to sleep again. I thought Id like to sit 
by the window and get some air... .” 

He laughed. 

“T see!” he said. ‘‘Well, it’s as good a time as 
any other for a little chat—a little explanation.” 

He groped his way in and sat down. 

“Now, then!” he said. ‘Suppose you tell me 
where you went with that fellow last evening, eh?” 

She was startled. She hadn’t thought he had 
noticed. He had said nothing, even when all the 
people had gone and they were alone together. 

“Oh . . . Just downstairs to the tea room?” 
“And why?” 
fee to talk quietly?” 


232 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


“To borrow money ?” 


“No; 
“Why not? We have nothing in the house. 
Why didn’t you borrow?” 


“‘T—didn’t want to.” 

“Why not? Has the worm turned?” 

“T didn’t ask him.” 

“Just philandering, eh? Noble, high-minded 
philandering? A few tears and so on, for him to 
pity you? So that he’ll pay without being asked? 
Hypocrite! Coward! Oh, you cheap, cheap worth- 
less little coward!” 

“Lawrence!” she said. ‘Don’t be so unkind!” 

“You're not unkind, are you? Eh? You try to 
make a fool of me in the most charitable possible 
way. Eh? It doesn’t touch my heart, fair Rosa- 
leen, because I don’t care a fig for you, but I have 
still a vestige of pride left. Enough to curse you!” 
he ended, with sudden ferocity. 

“Lawrence! You musn’t say that! You know 
I don’t make a—You know that Pm—loyal to you, 
always.” 

“You lie. You sit there and tell that puppy how 
badly I treat you. He thinks you're a martyr and 
I’m a bully. [ve seen it this long time. The next 
time you see him you'll recount thzs scene, eh?” 

“He’s gone. I’m not going to see him again.” 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 233 


He laughed again. 

“Gone, eh? Why? He got sick of you, I sup- 
pose. Who wouldn’t?’ 

“He didn’t get sick of me!” said Rosaleen, 
quietly, but with a quivering lip. 

Pee Ot course not! ... He thought it 
was his duty to go? That’s the way those good 
little boys get themselves out of an awkward situa- 
tion.” | 

“No!” said Rosaleen. ‘I—wanted him to go.” 

“But it wasn’t very hard to get rid of him, was 
it?” 

fveeue Yes! It was!’’ she cried. 

“Then why did you do it, may I ask? His money 
was extremely useful.” 

“Lawrence!” she cried, in a sort of despair. 
“Don’t you realise that all people aren’t—like that ? 
Don’t you know that there are some good people?” 

“You mean yourself, I take it. You want me to 
realise how much better you are than me? Is that 
the idea?” | 

“No,” she said. “I didn’t mean myself. I meant 
him... Mr. Landry. There are—good people. 
He is good.” 

“Do you love him?” 

She was amazed and shocked. 

“Do you?” he asked again. 


234 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


She thought for a moment, and then she said, 
“No!” For it » not the love Lawrence meant. 

“Do you love me?” 

‘“‘I—I don’t know, Lawrence. .. . 

“Then why, may I ask, do you stay with me?” 

“‘I—because I—want to do what.is right. I want 
to be—loyal. . . . I want to—to help you.” 

“You don’t. You're not really any use at all. 
You’re so slow and thick-witted. You can’t even 
make a living. You borrow money for me, it is true, 
but that’s not so hard. I could do that better alone. 
I’ve only endured you out of pity, because if I 
turned you out, you'd starve to death—or, as they 
say in the books—you would meet with ‘worse than 
death.’ You've no character.” 


992 


“You're going too far!” she cried. “I can’t 


33 


19 


stand everything! 

“Oh, yes, you can! Instead of pride, you've got 
your sanctimonious self-satisfaction. You cry in- 
stead of hitting back.” 

She clenched her hands and stood, with blazing 
cheeks, and passionately beating heart, fighting to 
keep silent. 

“T won't hurt him!” she told herself. “He’s blind 
and lonely. No matter what he says, I'll remember 
that I’m all he has in the world, and that he needs 
me. I won’t say anything that will hurt him!” 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 235 


“What are you doing now?” he asked. ‘‘Pray- 
ing? That’s right. Pray for a pure heart and then 
ask for a little money, while you’re about it.” 

There was a long pause. 

“Well,” she said cheerfully, at last. Let’s not 
quarrel, Lawrence! Shall we have breakfast?” 

“A little less of the martyr, if you don’t mind. 
I suppose it’s as refreshing as a Turkish bath, isn’t 
it, to feel that you’ve given up all for duty?” 

“But I don’t like it!” he cried, suddenly, in a 
voice that startled her. “Your renunciations and 
your nobilities and your resignations, and all the rest 
of your bag of tricks, nauseate me. I don’t really 
believe I can stand you any more.” 

He lumbered over to the window and threw it 
open. MRosaleen flung herself upon him in terror, 
imagining that he was going to throw himself out. 
But he pushed her away violently. 

“Taxi!” he bawled, in a voice that reverberated 
through the street. “Taxi!” 

The horrible, bellowing voice filled Rosaleen with 
panic fear. 

“Please, please don’t!” she entreated. “Please, 
please, please don’t! Lawrence! I'll telephone for 
a cab! Oh, please do come in!” 
But he bawled again. 
paxil” 


236 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


And a voice below answered him. 

“Hey! Keep calm! Here y’are!” 

“Wait!” said Lawrence, and drew himself into 
the room again. . 

“Lawrence, what are you going to do!” she cried. 

“Get dressed!’ he said, ‘‘and be quick about it!” 

She began to put on her clothes with cold and 
trembling hands. By the time she had finished, he 
was quite dressed and fumbling at the familiar hook 
for his overcoat and hat. Then he pulled down 
Rosaleen’s jacket. | 

“Here!” he said. ' “Put this onge 

“Oh, Lawrence!” she cried. ‘‘Wha 4 

He lurched over to her and flung the jacket 
round her shoulders, and grasped her fiercely by 
the arm. 


1? 


“Come on!” he said, with a laugh. 

‘““‘Where?’ she cried, but he did not answer. 

Fle shut her into the cab, and spoke in a low tone 
to the driver; then he climbed in beside her, and , 
they started off. 

“Lawrence!” she entreated. ‘Don’t do anything 
you'll be sorry for! Please, Lawrence, tell me 
where we're going!” | 

But he never said a word. He lighted a cigar 
and leaned back, smoking, with a smile on his face. 


She shook him frantically, she implored him; a 


FORLORN ROSALEEN 237, 


great terror had taken possession of her. She tried 
to open the door and jump out; she didn’t care if 
she were killed, so long as she could escape from this 
horribly smiling man. But he pulled her back with 
an oath. 

They went on and on; she didn’t notice where. 
At last they stopped before a house and Lawrence 
got out, pulling her after him; he stumbled up the 
steps and rang the bell. He stood there waiting, 
still grasping Rosaleen by the arm, hatless, shiver- 
ing in the cold mist. At last the door was opened 
by a servant. 

“‘Here’s a lady to see Mr. Landry!” cried Law- 
rence, and with a push he sent Rosaleen stumbling 
inside. Then— 


“T give you back your sacrifice!” he called, with 


a laugh, and was gone, slamming the door behind 
him. She could hear him shouting with laughter 
all the way down the steps. 


II 


RosALeeEN stood where she had fallen against the 
hat rack, while the maid stared at her. She couldn’t 
speak or move; it came across her mind that perhaps 
she was dying. ... 


238 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


P) 


“You better sit down!” said the girl, moved by 
compassion. ‘‘You look sick!” 

Rosaleen sank into a carved chair with an enor- 
mously high back; and the maid, on her way up- 
stairs to fetch Mr. Landry, looked back and saw her 
there, erect, her feet modestly crossed, her trembling 
hands resting on the arms. 


But when Nick came rushing down, she aa gone. 


BOOK FOUR: THE HONOURABLE 
LOVERS 


CHAPTER ONE 
I 


Aw afternoon of unparalleled gloominess. It had 
been dark all the day long, and now toward even- 
ing a savage rain had come on, driven by a cold 
March wind. In his rain-coat and waterproofed 
boots he could in a way defy the storm, but it 
affected him nevertheless; it depressed him horribly. 

He had been on his way home, a bit earlier than 
usual, sitting in the Elevated train and staring 
morosely out of the window at the drenched city, 
finding it uglier, colder, more sordid than ever 
before. When that curious impulse seized him, that 
longing he knew so well; it was a sort of spiritual 
thirst, an intangible desire to be assuaged by an 
intangible satisfaction. He got out of the train at 
Thirty-Eighth Street, instead of at Seventy-Second, 
where he belonged, and hurried east. 

His destination was a little restaurant on Fourth 
Avenue, a compromise between the severe, white 


tiled cafeterias and Dairy Lunches, and the more 
239 


240 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


luxurious sort. It had separate tables and table 
cloths, curtains across the windows and a carpet on 
the floor. But was, nevertheless, very cheap, and, 
it must be admitted, somewhat nasty. Not the place 
one would have picked out for a man as prosperous, 
as fastidious as this one. 

It was very early, and the place was empty. He 
opened the glass door and entered, went at once to 
a table in a corner and took off his dripping hat and 
his overcoat and hung them on a brass hat-rack 
beside which stook a great Japanese jar for umbrel- 
las. A man of thirty-five or so, with a neat black 
moustache and a dark and saturnine face, well- 
dressed, in a conservative sort of way. 

He didn’t sit down when he had taken off his 
coat; he remained standing, looking about him. 
And in a moment a waitress came hurrying over to 
him, a hollow-cheeked, brown haired young woman 
of thirty, her fragile grace encased in a stiffly- 
starched white apron. 

“Hello!” she said, with a serious smile. 

“Hello!” he answered. “I felt I had to see you. 
. . . How are you?” 

“All right, thank you! What will you have?’ 

“Sit down for a while!*he said. “It’s too early 
to eat. Anyway I’ll have to go home for dinner.” 


129 


“You must take something!” she said. “They 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS ~~ 241 


won't like it if you just sit here without ordering.” 

He picked up the menu, but after a frowning scru- 
tiny, threw it down. 

“Anything that’s not too poisonous,” he said. 
“And hurry back, Rosaleen, before the place begins 
to fill up.” 

She returned presently with her tray, set his 
dishes before him, and sat down opposite him, lean- 
ing her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. 

“You must have known I wanted to see you to- 
day!” she said. 

“Don’t you always?” 

“Yes, of course. But specially to-day. Because 
little Petey’s sick, and I wanted to talk to you 
about it.” 

‘Have you had a doctor?” 

“Yes; but I don’t like him. I don’t think he’s 
much good. I want a better one.” 

“T’ll see you get one. . . . What’s the trouble?” 

“Fever,” she said. ‘‘And headache, and he’s sick 
all the time. . . . Poor little fellow*” 

She stared ahead of her with troubled eyes. 

“T can’t help being worried,” she went on. ‘““The 
doctor says it’s just a bilious attack, but he’s been 
sick for four days, and he seems to be growing worse. 
Katie’s dreadfully upset. . . . I did wish I could 
speak to you.” 


242 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


“Why didn’t you telephone or write?” 

She shook her head. | 

“I wouldn’t like to do that!” she said. “But I 
did hope you’d come soon.” 

It was curious that they practically never looked 
at each other, these two. ‘The proprietress, who had 
witnessed this friendship for the past five years, and 
with favor, because of the trade it brought, had 
often observed that. She had so often seen them 
sitting thus, at a table, looking past each other, and 
not speaking very much. It was her theory that they 
met outside, and that the man was a millionaire 
with a jealous wife, and that he adored her waitress. 
A romantic and delightful theory; she was not above 
recounting it as a true tale to certain friends. And 
it was especially nice because this most flattering 
attention didn’t at all unsettle Rosaleen; she was 
invariably prompt, careful and good-tempered, a 
little aloof, but that was no fault. 

He didn’t touch his dinner to-night. He got up 
and thrust his arms into his overcoat again. 

“Telephone to Doctor Denz as soon as you go 
out,’ he said. “Tl stop on my way home and 
arrange with him. . . . Try not to worry, old girl. 
. . . And you could telephone me at the office 
to-morrow, if you wanted.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Landry!” she answered. 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS ~— 243 


As he always did, he put the money for his meal 
and the tip under his plate in a guilty way, and went 
off. But at the door he turned again, and raised his 
hat. And Rosaleen returned a slight wave of the 
hand. 


II 


Ir was a day marked by Fate as an important 
one—as the beginning of a new phase. Landry, 
however, was not in the least aware of this. He 
went on his way, absorbed in thought, still very 
serious, but unreasonably consoled, as he always was 
by these absurd and inarticulate interviews with 
Rosaleen. 

He still lived in his aunt’s house. He had, as 
he became more prosperous, made an attempt to set 
up an individual establishment with his mother and 
sister, but they didn’t like New York; they weren’t 
happy there; they pined for Charleston, and he had 
sent them back. And, in spite of his independence 
and his fastidious bachelor habits, he was very much 
alarmed at the idea of setting up for himself. He 
had pretended to his aunt and to himself that he 
wished to find a cosy little flat and a good valet, but 
he had never really looked for either. His aunt 
wished for nothing better than to keep him with her 


244 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


forever, the house revolved about him; he had a 
bedroom and a study, and he was waited upon like 
a Sultan. 

By minute degrees and in a quite incomprehen- 
sible manner, he had become accountable to his 
cousin Caroline. If he came in late, he explained 
to her why, and where he had been. If he went to 
a dance or a dinner without her, he returned pre- 
pared to give her all the details. He even made an 
effort to observe and remember things about which 
he knew he would be asked. 

Caroline was now twenty-seven, and as far as ever 
from getting married. She was a chilly, languid 
young Southron with a pallid, freckled face and 
beautiful fine gold hair; she had a sort of frigid 
charm which sufficed to attract men, but which 
cou‘dn’t hold them. She had innumerable “beaux,” 
but she had never had a man seriously in love with 
her. It was a severe misfortune for her; she had 
no other aim, no other interest in life except mar- 
triage; her days were becoming flat and weary beyond 
toleration to her, and a fatal resentment against men 
was creeping over her. Her cousin Nick was per- 
fectly well aware that she would have married him 
if he had offered, but that did not flatter him, 
because there were several others whom she would 
just as soon have had, and at least one whom she 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS 245 


would have preferred. He certainly didn’t love 
Caroline; he didn’t even admire her, but he had for 
her a genuine enough sort of brotherly affection and 
a small secret fear. He was never quite sure what 
she would do. | 

Everything went just as usual during dinner that 
evening; there was the same effort to entertain and 
distract the man which he had grown to consider 
a matter of course. If either his aunt or Caroline 
had sat at the table preoccupied or melancholy, he 
would have resented it deeply. Even a headache, if 
it permitted the sufferer to appear at all, must be 
accompanied by a wan smile and an air of interest. 
Then after dinner they went into the library, and 
as usual his aunt implored him not to work, but to 
rest and amuse himself, and complained that they 
saw so little of him. He was distrait, though, and 
anxious to get away to his little study where he 
could think in peace; he excused himself on the plea 
of work, and was making his escape when Caroline 
‘beckoned him into the little music room. 
- “Come here, Nickie!” she called, imperiously. 

He obeyed, and she made him sit down beside her 
on the sofa. 

‘“Ah’ve been hearing tales about you!” she said 
severely. 

He smiled at her. 


246 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


“Let’s have them!” 

“Jim saw you. Ah’m shocked! ... He was 
over on Fou’th Avenue last week, surveying, and he 
says he stopped in at a funny little place there for 
a bite of lunch. And there he saw you in a comer 


33 


with one of the waitresses 

‘“Pshaw!” said Nick. “If that’s the worst he can 
do——” | 

“He said she was a right pretty girl. And sitting — 
down at the table with you... .” 

“Very likely. Why not?” 

Now Caroline had considered this tale of abso- 
lutely no importance, when she began. She had sim- 
ply wished to bring it up so that they might have a 
little gallant badinage. But now it looked other- 
wise. Nick was really annoyed, and something more 
than annoyed. He evidently wished to get away 
from her and not to speak of this episode. Nick and 
a waitress! It hardly seemed credible; and yet 
Caroline was ready to believe the worst where men 
were concerned. 

She went over to the piano and began to play; 
her one sure refuge from any difficult situation, and 
while she played, Nick slipped out of the room. He 
was curiously disturbed. This was the first time in 
five years that anyone had got word of his inter- 
views with Rosaleen. He shrank with passionate 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS ~— 247 


sensitiveness from any intrusion into this secret ° 
world, this intangible, ineffable companionship. 

Five years! He lighted a cigar and sat down to 
contemplate it, with pain, with limitless regret, and 
yet finding a sweet consolation in their silent 
fidelity. 

For five years he had had to watch Rosaleen living 
that barren and difficult life... . 

He recalled that day, when the parlourmaid had 
waked him up to tell him that there was “a lady 
downstairs to see you, sir.’ A hatless, very pale 
lady, who had been pushed in at the door by a man 
who immediately disappeared. There was no trace 
of her when he got downstairs; he had gone out 
on the front steps in his dressing gown to look up 
and down the street, but without seeing anything. 
Directly he was dressed, he had gone to Lawrence, 
and Lawrence had lied impudently and borrowed 
money. He had said he didn’t know where Rosaleen 
had gone, or why, or if she would ever return. 

He recalled his tremendous two weeks’ battle 
with Miss Waters. Day after day he had gone to 
entreat her, to bully, to cajole, to trick her into 
giving him Rosaleen’s address. And she had always 

: wept bitterly and refused. 
“T promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone!” she 


248 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


said, over and over. “And you above all! Oh, Mr. 
Landry! ' J can'tt’ 

“Don’t you trust me?” he had demanded. ‘Do 
you think I'd annoy or persecute Rosaleen?” 

“Of course I don’t!” 

“If you’re really her friend,—if you’re thinking 
of her welfare, you’ll tell me where she is. She may 
need help.” , | 

In the end he made use of a shameful device—a 
theatric threat which even now made him blush. He 
told Miss Waters that if she wouldn’t help him to 
see Rosaleen, he was going to kill himself; he had 
even brought an old revolver with him. And to 
save the life of this young hero, Miss Waters had 
told him the name of the restaurant where Rosaleen 
worked. 

He recalled his first visit there; how he had sat 
at one of the tables, watching Rosaleen hurrying 
about, taking orders, carrying her heavy tray, sub- 
missive, and alert. 32h 

He had waited outside for her for hours. But 
she wouldn’t let him take her home. 

“Y’m living with a married sister,’ she had told 
him. ‘I’m perfectly all right there. But I don’t 
want you to come there, Mr. Landry!” 

They had walked down Fourth Avenue and over 
into Madison Square Park, where they had wan- 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS 249 


dered for hours that windy Autumn night. She had 
spoken quite freely about her own people, about her 
mother in Philadelphia, about this sister, the only 
member of the family with whom she had kept in 
touch. She was married to a shipping clerk, and 
there were three small children, the youngest of 
whom was Petey. And they were very poor. 

“You must let me help you!” said Nick. ‘“There’s 
no reason—no sense in your living this way.” 

“No,” she said, very resolutely. “I wouldn’t! 
Not for anything! I dare say you didn’t believe 
me when I told you—that time—that for myself I 
~wouldn’t have thought of—borrowing. But it was 
true. I’d rather be as poor as poor, and be inde- 
pendent. And have my self-respect.” 

“But you don’t want to go on like this? Being a 
—waitress, and living like this. You don’t want 
to lose all that you’ve gained—to slip out of the 
class where you belong. . . .” 

“T don’t belong to any class,” she answered. 
“That’s the whole trouble. I don’t belong any- 
where. I wish I'd been let alone. I wish I'd stayed 
like Katie.” 

“But you he began, and ended by murmur- 
ing something about “education” and ‘“‘advantages.”’ 

‘What good does it do?” she asked. “I’m not 
happy and I’m not useful. And in my heart I don’t 


250 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


want anything better—or even anything different— 
to what Katie wants.” 

“And what is that?” he asked. 

“Oh,—a nice home and not too much worry— 


be) 


and a family, I suppose,” she answered. 

“Then you expect to go like this, mdefinitely, 
although you admit you're neither happy nor use- 
ful?” 

“T am a little bit useful—to Katie.” 

“But I can’t stand it, Rosaleen, if you're not 


happy. [Tm going to make you happy. [Tm going 


99 


to arrange for a divorce for you 

“No, you're not!” she cried. “I wouldn't 
have it!” 

“Why?” 

“Because it’s a horrid, wrong idea,” she had 
insisted. “With his being blind—and every- 
things 

You could never argue with that confounded 
woman. She never listened to the voice of reason; 
she listened to something else—God knows what. 
And every act in her life had to be in conformity 
with this subtle and rigid authority. She never 
thought, she never puzzled, about what was right 
and what was wrong; she simply knew at once, by 
instinct. And that was the end of it. She lived by 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS 251 


the rule of a beautiful propriety; she would never 
do anything which did not befit her. 

Nick had given up, long ago. And now, he had 
almost come to believe that her way, if not the right 
way, was certainly one of the right ways of living, 
and that Rosaleen divorced would not have been 
quite Rosaleen. Sometimes, when he grew intoler- 
ably lonely for her, or when the sight of her in her 
white apron flying about waiting on other men 
incensed and distressed him more than usual, he 
would rail at her “‘obstinate, petty conventionality.”’ 
But she had none the less succeeded in making him 
comprehend her point of view; not with words, 
because she was not gifted with speech, but in some 
way of her own, her feeling that in divorcing 
Lawrence and marrying Nick she would lose her 
own especial quality. 

“It’s all right for lots of people,” she said. “I 
haven’t got any particular prejudice against it. It’s 
only a feeling. . . . I—well, I just can’t, that’s 
all.” 


CHAPTER TWO 
I 


Ir was a well-known thing in that household that 
Nick required a long time to dress. He had come 
home from the office promptly at six and had gone 
at once to his room, where, as he had expected, his 
evening clothes were laid ready for him. He was 
to take Mrs. Allanby and Caroline to a dinner at 
the house of one of his senior partners, and it was 
an altogether particular and important occasion. 
Caroline was wearing a new dress, of which he 
thoroughly approved; she had been ready when he 
came home, so that he could see it and pass judg- 
ment. Mrs. Allanby was still dressing; she was, in 
spite of her fifty years, a lady of no little quiet 
coquetry, and on this occasion she had a two-fold 
desire to look her best, first, because she so valued 
her nephew’s approbation, and second because she 
was very anxious to impress upon the senior partner 
how excellent a family was Nick’s. 

He had bathed and shaved, and was standing 
before the mirror in shirt and trousers, tying his 


white tie with severe attention, when someone 
252 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS 253 


knocked at his door. He was surprised, almost 
affronted. 
“Well? he called. ‘What. is it?” 

pis ca line!” 

“Y’m not late! It’s not half past seven yet. . . .” 

“No, Ah know it! But someone wants to speak 
to you on the telephone.” 

“Who?” 

paodeecont know... A woman, . ~.). She 
wouldn’t tell her name. She said it was impo’tant. 
Shall Ah say you’re busy and can’t come?” 

ENG. he said, hastily. “Tl come.’ 

And just as he was, hurried into the little sewing 
room where the upstairs telephone was. 

“This is Landry speaking!” he said. 

And a forlorn and patient voice answered: 

“Tt’s me—Rosaleen. . . . It’s about Petey. I’m 
very sorry to bother you, but I don’t know what to 
do, exactly.” 

“Why? Tell me!” 

“The doctor says it’s typhoid fever 

“By George! That’s too bad!” 

“And Katie’s. . . . It’s hard to tell it over the 
telephone. . . . I wésh—couldn’t I possibly see you 


bP] 


just for a few minutes?” 
“Of course! I'll be with you at once. Where 
are you?” 


254.ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


33 


“T’m at home,” she answered, and gave him the 
address she had withheld for five years. 

Nick turned to Caroline. 

“Tl have to go somewhere first,” he said, hur- 
riedly. “Tll try not to be late for dinner. But 
if I am, go without me, and Pll follow. . . . Just 
explain to Anson io 


“Explain what? Where are you going?” 

Indignation and disappointment had brought 
tears to her eyes. This outrageous desertion was too 
much for her; she struggled for a moment to hold her 
tongue, but she could not. 

“It’s that wattress!’ she cried. ‘Ah know it! 
Some nasty, common, scheming woman. ... It’s a 
shame! It’s a shame!” 

She began to cry. 

“Tt’s a shame!” she cried again. 

Nick looked at her with frigid disgust. 

“It happens to be a—very old friend who’s in 
great trouble,” he said. 

“What old friend? How can you have old 
friends here that we never heard of ?” 

He turned away from her and rang up a nearby 
garage for a taxi. 

“Tt’s a case of serious illness,” he said. 

‘(Do you mean to say you're not coming to that 
dinner?” cried Caroline. 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS _ 255 


‘“Haven’t you any—heart?” demanded her 
cousin. “I tell you, someone is seriously ill. . . .” 

“What’s it got to do with you!” cried Caroline. 
“Who is it? Why won’t you tell me?” 

When they looked back upon that episode later, 
it didn’t seem posstble. That these two people, so 
dignified, so self-restrained, so civilized, should have 
said what they said to each other, should have 
enacted. so disgraceful a scene! 

“Who is this person that’s seriously ill?” Caroline 
demanded, again, with fierce contempt. 

“It’s none of your business!” said Nick. 

He was astounded, she was astounded, by such a 
phrase from him. . 

“All right!” said she. “Go to your waitress! 
Ah don’t care! But Ah won’t go to the dinner 
either! And Ah won’t send any word or make any 
excuses. Yow can do that to-morrow, in your office. 
You can explain to Mr. Anson why nobody came to 
his dinner party.” 

“You couldn’t do such a—beastly, contemptible 
thing!” cried Nick in alarm. It was the special 
business of women to make excuses for men; they 
knew how; they had the art. . . . “Caroline, if you 
don’t, ll never forgive you!” 

“Ah don’t give a darn!” she cried. ‘“There!” 


BED 


“You've got to go!” he said, but weakly. He 


256 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


couldn’t make her. . . . He stood there by the tele- 
phone, white with rage, trying to think... . But 
nothing came to his brain except two horribly dis- 
tressing pictures; he saw Anson and his wife and the 
other guests waiting, polite but astonished and 
resentful. . . . And he saw Rosaleen, wild with 
anxiety, looking out of a window for him. 

‘“There’s a taxi here, sir!’ said a voice, and he saw 
the parlourmaid in the doorway, frankly interested 
at this curious spectacle of Miss Caroline in evening 
dress and Mr. Landry in his shirt sleeves, evidently 
quarreling. 

“Yes, it’s for me!” he said, briefly. 

Without another glance at Caroline he ran into 
his room, hurried on his waistcoat and dress coat, 
thrust on his overcoat, snatched up hat and stick and 
rushed out. 

Rage burned in him. He didn’t think of Rosaleen 
as the taxi sped along; he thought of Caroline, with 
hate, with triumph. 

“Let her go to the devil!” he said. ‘I won’t be 
bullied!” 

II 

Ir was a miserable place over a bakery on Third 
Avenue, a squalid evil-smelling neighbourhood, with 
the Elevated trains thundering past. This tall man 
in evening dress descending from a taxi aroused 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS _ 257 


profound interest; one bright little boy said it was 
movies. He entered the narrow hallway from which 
the stairs ascended, steep as a ladder, and after 
striking a match, saw four name plates beneath four 
bells. Cohen—Moriarity—Connelly—O Dea. 

As he hesitated before them, Rosaleen herself 
came hurrying down the steep stairs. 

“T saw you coming!” she said. ‘Oh, Mr. Landry, 
I didn’t know what to do! He’s sick—he’s very, 
very sick! The doctor says he’ll either have to go 
to the hospital or have a nurse, and Katie won’t let 
Hine eo). :... she’s in such a terrible state... .” 

“Let him have a nurse, of course.” 

“But we can’t. There’s no place for a nurse to 
sleep. And it’s not a fit place for little Petey, either. 
He ought to go to the hospital. He won’t have any 
chance here. I know it’s dreadful of me, but I i 

She had suddenly seized one of his hands with 
both of hers and pressed it violently, quite dis- 
traught, quite unconscious of what she did. 

“JT don’t care! I made up my mind that I would 
ask you. . . . Won’t you come upstairs and talk 
to Katie? You don’t know how she feels about a 
hospital. . . . She’s only known people in the 
wards, where—it isn’t so nice. . . . When you're 
SO poor, you’re—so helpless. . . . If you’d just tell 
her that Petey’s to have a private room and a nurse 


258 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


and everything done for him, and that she can see 
him any time she wants. . . .? Oh, I know it will 
cost a fortune! I have no right to ask you... . 
But I knew you’d do it!” 

“You don’t know how glad I am to be asked,” 
said Nick. “Come on! Let’s go upstairs!” 

This where she lived—where she had lived for 
five years! This dirty, dilapidated hole, dark, air- 
less, with grimy windows on a malodourous court, 
with the thundering roar of the trains making the 
very walls shake, with these pitiful and fragile little 
children always underfoot! He had known that 
she was poor, that the whole family was poor, but 
he had not imagined anything like this. He had 
never set foot in such a place before. It filled him 
with horror, these mean, cramped little quarters 
which the despair of poverty had left dirty and 
neglected. ‘There wasn’t a chair in that room on 
which he dared to sit, one had a broken back, another 
a broken seat, another had a leg missing. . . . 

There came bursting into the room a big, gaunt 
woman like a fury, desperate with grief and fright. 

“What is it ye want?” she cried, to Nick. 

Rosaleen began to whisper to her, and she became 
calmer, became little by little composed and shrewd. 
This was a man from whom benefits might be 
expected. 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS — 259 


“T thought maybe you were from the Board!’ she 
- explained. “’Tis them do be worrying the likes 
of us whenever there is any sickness in it at all.” 

She had been living in a very nightmare of fear; 
her little child was ill and the world was conspiring 
to snatch it from her. She was quite determined 
that it should not go. She didn’t know, poor soul, 
just what awful powers the police and the health 
officials might have. She was accustomed to their 
authority. It might be the law to take her child 
away. But law or no law, she would not have it! 
She saw hope in this rich friend of Rosaleen’s; she 
clung to him; she fawned upon him. 

She opened the door of the room where Petey lay. 
There was nothing in it but two big wooden beds. 
Outside from the fire escape hung a line of limp 
clothing fluttering in the night wind; nothing else 
to be seen. . . . The sick baby lay motionless in 
the centre of one of the wide beds, blazing with 
fever, his face scarlet, his brow pitifully contorted, 
his eyes closed. His limp little body seemed scarcely 
to raise the bed covers; his arms lay outside the 
counterpane, with. their thin, flat wrists, the tiny, 
stubby hands. .. . 

The mother flew over to him and tucked his arms. 
under the blanket. 


260 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


“Do you want to catch yer death!” she cried, 
harshly, to the unconscious child. 

She passed her hand over his burning head, feel- 
ing the hard, round little skull under the fine hair. 

‘“He’s that hot!” she said. And suddenly began 
wailing. 

“Oh, he cannot live at all! Well do I know he’s 
to be took from me! Petey! Oh, Petey, my 
darlin’ !” 

Rosaleen tried to quiet her. 

10» 


“Listen, Katie dearie!” she said. “Mr. Landry’s 
going to help us! Petey’s going to have a beautiful 


big room all to himself e. 
Her sister swore at her. 
“T will not let thim lave a hand on Petey!” she 


199 


cried. ‘They'll not take him from me! 

“Katie, you can go with him!’ Rosaleen prom- 
ised. ‘You can go to the hospital with him and sit 
by him for a while, can’t she, Mr. Landry?” 

“Yes,”’ said Nick. “It'll be just as Rosaleen 
says.” 

Il 

Tuey had gone, Katie and her baby, in a private 
ambulance, and Nick had arranged with the doctor 
for the child’s reception. It seemed as if a terrible 
storm had come and gone, leaving an unnatural 
calm. He sat in the little hole Katie called her 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS 261 


“parlour,” with its dirty lace curtains, its little gilt 
table, the two broken rocking chairs with ‘“‘tidies” 
fastened to their backs by stained red ribbons. 

Rosaleen tried to explain to him. She tried, in 
her tongue-tied way, to draw for him a picture of 
all these lives. Katie, she told him, was a wonder- 
ful woman, a wife of unlimited loyalty, a mother 
of passionate and ceaseless devotion. Her husband 
was a shipping clerk; he had worked in various de- 
partment stores, but he was very unlucky; he was 
always hurting himself, straining his back, crushing 
his fingers, dropping crates on his feet. And with 
the three children, and big Pete laid up so often, you 
Couig see... 

“And I don’t make much,” she said, simply. 
-“Sometimes we think we can’t get on. But we do.” 

She sighed, with all that dreadful resignation of 
hers. 

But Nick had nothing to say to that recital of 
hers; he sat in complete silence for a long time. 
Rosaleen watched him covertly; she worshipped 
him; she thought, that in his evening dress, he was 
the most distinguished, the most magnificent crea- 
ture she had ever seen. Oh, there was no one like 
him! Her Nick, who never failed her, who always 
understood her, who never took advantage of her 
misfortunes. . . . He did not look at her; how was 


262 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


she to know that ke was worshipping her, abashed 
and humble before her matchless compassion and 
unselfishness. She suffered all things, endured all 
things, and was kind... . 

In squalor, poverty and incessant anxiety, she had 
kept her spirit tranquil and true. Her affection 
which never criticised, made no demands, seemed to 
him to sanctify this place. He remembered that 
when he had first learned of her origin, in Miss 
Amy’s violent words, he had believed himself “dis- 
illusioned”; and had been bitter and angry toward 
her. That was nearly eight years ago; she was thirty 
now; the best of her youth was over, had passed 
in cruel and thankless servitude. No matter what 
happened in the future, that couldn’t be effaced, 
those wrongs could never be repaired. Lawrence 
had exploited her shamelessly, Miss Amy had ex- 
ploited her, her sister in her blind and pitiful 
motherhood would have drained her dry of blood 
for the benefit of her children; he himself had re- 
pudiated and deserted her. And she had no rancour, 
no bitterness even toward life in the abstract. She 
was simply resigned, a little sorrowful, but brave, 
patient, enduring to the uttermost end. 

He got up suddenly and held out his hand. 

“Good night!” he said, brusquely. ‘‘You'll hear 
from me very soon.” ! 


CHAPTER THREE 
I 


He had never been so wretched before. It was 
the suffering of a vigourous and obstinate man en- 
tangled in a situation in which he is unable to move. 
He wished to lay everything at Rosaleen’s feet, and 
yet could give her nothing. He longed to relieve 
her intolerable burdens, and could not take a step 
toward doing so. | 

And, as always when he was not able to act, anger 
took possession of him. He was cool, resolute, self- 
controlled enough when there was anything for him 
to do, but tie his hands and his blood began to boil. 
His wrath began to descend upon Lawrence. He 
decided that he would go to see him, to threaten, 
to bully, to bribe, in some way to force him to free 
Rosaleen against her will. He refused to see the 
absurdity of this; directly he had made the decision 
he felt a sort of peace, and he was able to go home 
and to sleep. 

He knew very well that there must be a reckon- 
ing at home, and he welcomed it. He wanted it. 


He blamed all the world for Rosaleen’s sufferings. 
263 


264 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


He wished to defend her and to fight for her. Un- 
accountably and very unjustly he was angry at his 
aunt and at Caroline. (Or was it perhaps that he 
subconsciously wished to forestall their reproaches ?) 
. . . However, he appeared at breakfast the next 
morning in a most unpleasant mood. He said 
“Good morning!” frigidly to Mrs. Allanby, and sat 
down at the table with a frown. 

“Td like to speak to you alone for a minute, if 
you please!’ he said. 

With a gesture his aunt dismissed the servant, 
and sat looking quietly at him. 

“About last night,” he began. “I told Caroline 
it was a case of urgent necessity. She couldn’ t— 
or wouldn't understand.” 

“Ah think it would have been better to have made 
your excuses to Mr. Anson,” she said, evenly. 

“IT left that to—to you. You understand that 
sort of thing. You have so much tact... .” 

“You didn’t ask me, Nick!’ 

“TI hadn’t time. Good Lord! Caroline isn’t a 
child. She ought to understand 4 

“Understand just what? You didn’t tell her 
where you were going, or why. No! Please don’t 


interrupt me for a minute! Ah know you're not ac- 
countable to us in any way. But we were just going 
to that dinner for your sake, because you asked us. 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS — 265 
And . . . Ah’m disappointed in you. Ah can’t help 


ity 

“You shouldn’t be. It’s not fair. It was an 
urgent matter. I was worried and upset, and per- 
haps I did neglect certain formalities. But under 
the circumstances, you ought to make allowances.” 

“But what were the circumstances? You must 
remember we don’t know them.” 

He was silent; then he asked, abruptly. 

“What happened? What did you do?’ 

“Ah went. Ah thought if Ca’line went, too, it 
might make an odd number. Ah told Mr. Anson 
that an old friend of the family had met with an 
accident and that you and Ca’line had gone to him.” 

“That was nice of you!” said Nick, gratefully. 
“Then it’s all right, is it?” 

“As far as Mr. Anson goes. But Ah do think. 
. . . Boy, you don’t know how you worry me.” 

He looked at her, with quite his old smile. 

“No!” he said. “I will not tell you! Not yet!” 

ear 

Ir was the first time in years that he had stopped 
away from his office. But he was too sternly intent 
upon his new purpose to be able to think of any- 
thing else. He sat in his study, smoking a cigar, 
until it seemed to him a reasonable hour, and then 
set out. 


266 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


He was very nervous; more so than he realised. 
And his descent into that old neighbourhood revived 
a hundred memories to oppress him. He fancied he 
saw her ghost, its arms full of bundles, running 
through Fourth Street... . 

“The best of her life wasted!’ he said to himself, 
over and over. It gave him courage. 

He needed courage, too. He was very much 
afraid of Lawrence; not, of course, in a physical 
sense, but because Lawrence had any number of 
mysterious advantages. Lawrence was blind and 
helpless, Lawrence was Rosaleen’s lawful husband, 
Lawrence was infinitely more sophisticated and 
subtle than himself. . . . A formidable adversary. 
He made no plan of what he should say; with such 
a person it was not possible, for you couldn’t know 
in what humour you would catch him. He resolved 
simply to keep his temper and to flinch at nothing. 

-The front door was unlatched, as it had always 
been in the old days; he entered and went upstairs, 
knocked on the familiar door. But a strange voice 
answered him, a strange young man lived in there, — 
who knew nothing whatever of Lawrence Iverson. 

He made a few other enquiries in the house, but 
without result. : 

He was on his way home, walking up Fifth Ave- 
nue while he watched for his bus, when he passed 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS — 267 


a familiar corner, and he decided to call upon Miss 
Waters. She was a link with the old days. 

There at least nothing was changed. She sat as 
usual in the dusty old studio, and she herself was 
as dusty, as wrinkled, as flustered as before. And 
inordinately delighted to see him. She even wept. 

“T hardly ever see Rosaleen,”’ she said. ‘Once in 
a great, great while, on a Sunday, she drops in. But 
I don’t blame her, poor girl! She’s so busy and so 
worried. . . . You don’t know——” 

She was obliged to stop and dry her eyes. 

“You don’t know how much I miss those old 
days!” she said. “I always loved Rosaleen like my 
own child. . . . Poor girl! I never saw much of 
her during her married life. Her husband and I were 
not—very congenial. But there’s always been such a 
bond between us, Mr. Landry! I can’t help saying ° 
to you that I think that marriage was a mistake !” 

“Not much doubt about that! Do you happen 
to know where the—the fellow’s gone?” 

“No. Inever enquired. And I haven’t kept track 
of the old crowd.” 

Poor soul! Not one of the “old crowd’’ except 
Miss Mell had ever come near her. 

“T’m not up-to-date on news of the quarter!” she 
said, archly. “Don’t come to me for fhat, Mr. Lan- 
dry!” 


268 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


“T didn’t. I came because I wanted to see you.” 

She was pleased; she wished that she had put her 
least dusty velvet bow in her hair instead of this 
gnawed little thing that now perched there... . 

Perhaps his love for Rosaleen had given Nick a 
more understanding heart, or perhaps it was that he 
was well-disposed toward everyone associated with 
the beloved woman, but from whatever cause, he 
saw Miss Waters that day in a new light. He saw 
her not as a comic old maid, but as a quite admirable 
human being. She was a plucky old girl, struggling 
along with art lessons, and a wonderful friend. 

She began asking him about himself, but he be- 
came more and more distrait. Suddenly he told her 
the whole story. 

She was astonished, she was profoundly touched; 
she wept bitterly, but she was delighted, both be- 
cause the magnificent Mr. Landry had seen fit to 
confide in her, and because it was a romantic history, 
such as she loved. 

“YT don’t know what to do,” he said, when he had 
finished. “I don’t know how to help her. Can you > 
suggest anything?” 

And, to his surprise, she did. 

“No, of course, you can’t do anything,” she said. 
“But if you could only get the ladies of your family 
interested in her. . . . They could do anything!” 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS 269 


“What could they do?” 

“Oh, they'd think of all sorts of ways, if they 
really wanted to help!” 

“They wouldn’t, though,” he said gloomily. 
“They've got all sorts of prejudices. . . .” 

“If they could see her, and get to know her, it 
would be all right.” 

“My aunt has seen her, you know!” 

“Yes, but don’t you see! Now she’s the wife of 
the distinguished artist Lawrence Iverson! Think 
what a difference that makes!” 

“T never thought of her—like that... . And 
you think they could help her?” 

“T’m sure of it! And you know, dear Mr. Landry, 
people love to be associated with Artists. As Mrs. 
Lawrence Iverson, you know, she’s really a most 
interesting figure. Someone might be induced to 
set her up in an Antique Shop, or something like 
that.” 

In the end they decided that Mrs. Allanby and 

Caroline should be suddenly confronted with Rosa- 
leen in this new and impressive role. 
“But we can’t tell Rosaleen!”’ said Miss Waters. 
‘“She’d never consent. She’s so retiring. I'll tell 
you what! I'll give a studio party, next Saturday 
evening, and if you'll bring them, Pll get Rosaleen 
here. Will you?” 


270 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


III 


Never had Miss Waters been so excited. The 
moment Landry had left, she hurried out and bought 
a small plane. She desired that there should be 
dancing at her party, and to make that possible, she 
would have to “do” the studio floor. There were 
two pupils working in there, and it disturbed them 
very much when Miss Waters got down on her hands 
and knees in one corner and began to use her plane. 
However, it didn’t last long. An hour's work con- 
vinced her that the whole floor would take her some 
years to finish. She employed the plane instead with 
great zest on those little shelves she had put up; she 
smoothed them off and painted them a very artistic 
orange, with a stencil of black tulips. She was, you 
must know, very handy with tools. .. . 

Her preparations were most extensive. She spent 
an outrageous amount of time and money, and she 
bought too much of everything. Two hundred ciga- 
rettes, among other things, and a plethora of flowers. 
She made little wreaths to put on the heads of her 
plaster statues, and she painted a little card for each 
guest to take home as a souvenir. 


IV 


RosaALEEN had not been warned. She had come 
directly from the restaurant, in her threadbare suit 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS 271 


and her faded black hat. And to be ushered into 
the midst of a chattering party of twelve or fifteen 
people was a terrible ordeal to her. She turned 
quite pale; she stood in the doorway, drawing off 
her gloves and smiling nervously. At first she didn’t 
quite grasp it.... 

It startled her, too, for Miss Waters to address 
her as “Mrs. Iverson,” and to present her so. At 
first she saw only one familiar face, and that was 
Miss Mell’s, the same, stout, bespectacled friend of 
the old studio days. And then suddenly she caught 
sight of a face from a nightmare. . . . Surely that 
lady who had sat in the Humberts’ kitchen. .. . 

She was hurried forward by Miss Waters, and 
Mrs. Lawrence Iverson was presented to Mrs. 
Allanby. Who instantly recognised her. And to 
Miss Caroline Allanby, who at once knew that this 
was the person who had beguiled Nick. . . . And 
Nick, who was standing behind them, and Miss 
Waters, both saw immediately that the experiment 
had failed. The two ladies didn’t care a fig for the 
wife of the distinguished artist; they greeted her 
politely, but with unmistakable chilliness. There 
was more in this than met the eye! They had sus- 
pected something when Nick had been so insistent 
about bringing them to this “studio party.” 

There were three lively rings at the door bell, and 
Miss Waters was glad to hasten away to admit the 


272 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


latest comer. It was Miss Gosorkus, more friendly, 
more exuberant than ever before. She beamed at 
everyone and sat down at the side of Dodo Mell. 

“Hello, Mell!” she cried. “How are you? I 
haven’t seen you for ages upon ages! . . . Do you 
remember the larks we used to have up in your old 
studio?” 

Miss Mell had never been enthusiastic regarding 
Miss Gosorkus; she remembered what a great nuis- 
ance she had been; she answered with moderation. 

“And doesn’t it seem sort of sad?’ Miss Gosorkus 
went on. “Enid gone to live abroad, and poor 
Lawrence Iverson gone!” 

Everyone heard her; everyone looked up with in- 
terest. Dodo tried to whisper a warning, but it 
was not heard. 

“You heard, didn’t you?” she went on. “It was 
the saddest thing! You know, of course, that the 
poor man went blind. And then, my dear, that 
heartless, awful woman he’d married deserted him. 
I believe she ran off with another man.” 

“Shut up!” whispered Dodo. “Don’t you see her?” 

“Who?” asked Miss Gosorkus aloud, her babyish 
eyes searching the room. She didn’t recognise Rosa- 
leen, even as a vaguely familiar face. 

“And after that,’’ she continued, ‘the poor man | 
went to Paris, and he was run over by a taxi. He’s 
been dead five years.” 


CHAPTER FOUR 
I 


Nick crossed the room and sat down beside Miss 
Gosorkus, scowling and pale. 

“You're surer” he asked. 

“Sure?” she repeated, enquiringly. 

“About Iverson. About his being dead?” 

pet olcourse; Pam! JI...” 

“How did you hear of it?” 

“A friend of mine in Paris .. . 

“Will you give me the address and let me write 
to her?” 

“Him. Its a gentleman,” said Miss Gosorkus 


33 


with a smirk. 

“Give me zs address then.” 

He had taken out a note-book and a fountain pen, 
and sat waiting while Miss Gosorkus somewhat re- 
luctantly gave the information. Then he got up 
and looked about for Rosaleen. She was not there. 
He approached his aunt. 

“Order a taxi when you're ready to go,” he said, 
in a tone designed to discourage questions. Then 


said good-bye curtly to Miss Waters, and hurried off. 
273 


274 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS » 


It was raining fiercely when he reached the street, 
but he felt nevertheless obliged to walk. He set 
off across the Square and up Fifth Avenue, a solitary 
figure in the broad and deserted street. 

The barriers were all demolished. She was free 
—after all these years; no obstacles separated them. 
And instead of joy, terror and alarm had seized him. 
The idea of marrying her seemed monstrous. He 
didn’t want to! And the more he didn’t want to, 
the more inexorably did he feel obliged, compelled 
to do so without delay. It was a debt of honour, to 
be paid instantly, without reflection. 

He was determined to follow her home to that 
squalid and horrible flat, and insist upon the earliest 
possible wedding. She would, of course, have all 
sorts of tiresome and irritating objections which he 
would have to override. He would have to be mas- 
terful, resolute, fervent, and there was nothing of 
that sort in him. He felt singularly cold and aloof; 
he felt the strongest sort of inclination to run away 
from the whole affair. He said to himself that he 
wanted a ‘‘chance to think it over,” but really he 
did not. He wished, on the contrary, to forget it, 
never to think of it again. Romance had departed 
from his Rosaleen. She was no longer tragic, piti- 
ful, inaccessible. She was nothing more or less than 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS ~— 275 


a very obscure and ordinary woman whom he was in 
honour bound to marry. Quite suddenly he saw 
his folly, the outrageous thing this was, to waste and 
ruin his life through this profoundly unsuitable mar- 
riage, which would bring him nothing but unhappi- 
ness. What was he going to do with her? He re- 
membered her in the studio days, shabby, worn with 
humiliation and distress, he remembered the shock- 
ing scene in the Humberts’ kitchen; he remembered 
her—most painful memory of all—in the restau- 
rant, in her white apron, carrying her big tray... . 
He was ashamed of her. .. . | 

_ He clenched his hands as he walked along, and 
his face was grim and desperate. He remembered 
how he had loved Rosaleen, and love appeared to 
him as something intangible and silly. What the 
devil did it amount to? Why must he do this? He 
had got on very well without her thus far... . 
Now he would have to change his life completely; 
he would have to leave his comfortable quarters at 
his aunt’s and go off to live somewhere alone with 
Rosaleen. As he was prepared to make this im- 
mense sacrifice for her, he felt justified in dwelling 
upon the small and intolerable details. What would 
his friends say, his business associates? . . . He 
would be ashamed of her. . . . Barren and disgust- 
ing duty, flat and insipid beyond measure... . 


276 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


He had reached the house on Third Avenue and 
entered it, rang the bell in the vestibule and as- 
cended the dirty stairs, in the dark and the foul air. 
Katie opened the door for him, and admitted him 
grudgingly, almost with hostility. She did not like 
him, and, like Rosaleen, her favour was not to be 
won by benefits. No matter what he did for her 
and for her family, she would never like him, be- 
cause he was condescending and superior. She took 
him into the parlour, and he sat there for an hour, 
quite alone, with one dim, ghastly jet of gas burning 
inside a fluted blue china globe. At intervals the 
elevated trains came rushing past, and blotted out 
every other sound and perception from his startled 
and affronted brain; then in the lull he would hear 
Katie’s voice in the kitchen talking to the little chil- 
dren. It was ten o’clock, but there was no air of its 
being bedtime, or evening. The woman was still 
working, the children still playing; one might have 
imagined their days to be endless. 

Sickened and depressed, and utterly disheartened, 
Landry got up. 

“Please tell Rosaleen [ll come again to-mor- 
row, he called. 

It had cleared when he came out into the street 
again. He set off homeward, wondering where 
Rosaleen might be. Did she, too, feel it necessary 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS — 277 


to walk and to be alone? He was certainly not 
sorry to have missed her; he was glad that he was 
to have an opportunity for planning a proper, gen- 
tlemanly speech. He felt that if he were to come 
face to face with her now he could say nothing bet- 
ter than— 

“I suppose there’s no reason why we shouldn’t get 
married now.” 

It never occurred to him to wonder how she was 
feeling, what she was thinking. He was simply 
convinced that her attitude would be irritating. 


II 


Ir he could have seen where she was! Meek, 
patient, quiet, her feet crossed, her hands in her lap, 
she was sitting in his aunt’s drawing-room, waiting 
for Mrs. Allanby’s return. Her face was inexpres- 
sive; it was a face incapable of expression, like her 
voice and her gestures. She was inarticulate, for- 
ever cut off from her fellows by this queer helpless- 
ness. Nothing that went on in her brain or her 
heart could ever be known by other people; she 
couldn’t show it, and she couldn’t tell it. She sat 
there now without the least shadow on her face of 
the dread and misery she was enduring. 

She had hurried out ahead of Nick because she 


278 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


wanted to cry; because she was obliged to cry, and 
she was afraid that this inexplicable weeping would 
annoy him. She had run down the front steps and 
into the shelter of the basement door and had stood 
there sobbing frantically and silently for some time. 
. . . Oh, if she could only draw a great, free breath, 
and go where she wanted and do as she pleased, and 
have no duties and obligations toward anyone! If 
only, for one week even, she could behave as she 
liked, without implicating any other person in her 
behaviour! No: she was eternally bound to please 
people and to help people. She was mortally weary 
of it. The tyranny of the Humberts, the tyranny 
of Enid, the tyranny of Lawrence, were all about 
to be succeeded and swallowed up in a tyranny a 
thousand times more exacting and difficult. To 
satisfy Nick she would have to make herself over, 
and at thirty that is not at all easy or pleasant, even ~ 
for a loving woman. For Nick she would have to 
keep young and cheerful, when she felt immeasur- 
ably old and discouraged. She would have to make ~ 
a place for herself in his world, and to maintain it. 

She dried her eyes and straightened her hat. She 
waited for a few moments in her dark little niche, 
looking out at the rain, and reflecting. She gave her 
attention to Miss Gosorkus, to Nick, to the aunt, to 
the cousin. And a very great resentment grew up 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS = 279 


in her, a stern and almost ferocious determination. 
She was going to get some profit from this situation; 
why not? Why should she always give, and sacri- 
fice, and efface herself? She made up her mind to 
begin her new life under the most favourable possi- 
ble circumstances, to eliminate all possible disadvan- 
tages. She was filled with anger against all these 
people, and a strong proletarian desire to retaliate, 
to repay their indifference, their ignorance of her life 
and of her heart, with arrogance, with bitterness. 
It was not a new feeling; she had had it often before, 
for Miss Amy, for Lawrence, for other people less 
important to her. It was the immeasurable resent- 
ment of a gentle and fine spirit against the inferior 
people who oppress it. 


She heard the sound of a motor drawing up out- 
side, then the bell rang, and she saw the parlour 
maid hurry through the hall to open the door. 

‘“There’s a lady waiting to see you, ma’am,” she 
heard her say, and Caroline said: 

“Ma gracious! At ¢hés time of night 

Then, from where she sat, she could see the slim 
feet and ankles of Caroline ascending the siairs, and 
in a moment Mrs. Allanby entered. 


BED 
es 


280 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


She actually turned pale, perhaps for the first time 
in her life. 

“Oh!” she’ cried.) “Ol, (i veut ee ee 
Iverson. . . . Please sit down!” 

Rosaleen was glad to do so, because her knees were 
weak. And for some time they sat opposite each 
other, their eyes averted, saying not a word. Mrs. 
Allanby grey haired and elegant, in her black crépe 
de chine, Rosaleen dejected, pensive, worn. 

“I wanted to speak to you before I saw Nick,” 
she said, suddenly. “I wanted tosee .. .” 

‘Yes?’ said Mrs. Allanby, encouragingly. A 
wild hope had sprung up in her that perhaps Rosa- 
leen didn’t wesh to marry Nick, that perhaps she had 
fallen in love with some undesirable person like her- 
self. | 

“I suppose you'd like to make the best of a bad 
bargain?” said Rosaleen. 

These words struck Mrs. Allanby forcibly; they 
destroyed her hope completely. She murmured: 

“Tf it’s a bad bargain, why make it?” 

Rosaleen ignored this. 

“He'll ask me to marry him,” she said, ‘“‘and Pll 
say ‘yes. ... But there are—a lot of difficul- 
Hes: | 

“Yes,’’ said Mrs. Allanby, ‘quickly. ‘You are 
frank with me, Mrs. Iverson, and Ah shall be frank 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS 281 


with you. There are a great many difficulties. It’s 
not . . . no; it’s not a suitable match for either of 
you. Ah don’t think—in fact, Ah’m swre you'd 
neither of you be happy. If you will weigh the dis- 
advantages .. .” 

“Nobody could possibly know the disadvantages 
better than I do!” said Rosaleen. ‘‘But . . . we’ve 
. . . liked each other for a long time, and nothing 
can stop us now. We're surely going to be married 
. . . And it needn’t be so bad, if you'll help me. 
That’s what I came for—to ask you to help me. 
Will you, Mrs. Allanby?”’ 

Mrs. Allanby was astounded. 

“But . . . Ah don’t see how you can expect me 
to help you!” she said, ““when—Ah would prefer— 
for it not to take place.” 

“But it wé// take place! That’s just the point! 
You’re fond of Nick. You want things to go well 
for him. That’s what I meant by making the best 
of a bad bargain.” 

“Ma dear,” said Mrs. Allanby. “Ah wish you 
would listen to me. Ah’m so much older than you. 
Ah know—the world. Marriages like this can’t be 
happy. It’s been tried over and over again; people 
like you and Nick a 

“There never were two people jzs¢ like us. Every- 
body’s different,” said Rosaleen, struggling with her 


282 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


thought. “Anyway, really and truly, Mrs. Allanby, 
it’s no use pointing out all that. You couldn’t say 
anything J don’t know. And, after all, I’m the one 
itll be hardest for. I’m the one who'll have to 
struggle, and learn, and change myself. I’m the 
one with all the handicaps.” 

She paused for a moment. She thought of her 
barren and desolate life, of the terrible future 
stretching before her. And this woman was asking © 
her to give up her unique solace and hope, was ready 
to argue with this perishing creature as to whether 
it should seize the rope flung out as it drowned. 

“Why!” she cried, appalled, outraged. ‘“Can’t 
you think of me for an instant? What could I do? 
How could I go on—without him? ... Why 
should I give him up? How can you possibly ask 
me to?” 

“For his sake,” said Mrs. Allanby. “If you love 
him, you must be willing to sacrifice yourself.” 

“I’ve been sacrificing myself until there’s hardly 
anything Jeft of me!” she cried passionately. “And 
it’s never done anyone any good. People just ask 
me as a matter of course. . . . But zof¢ this time. 
. . . Why should I? He’s known me for years and 
years. Hehasn’t cared for anyone else. Well, have 
I done him any harm? MHave I had a bad influ- 
ence ¢” 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS _ 283 


“No, ma dear, of cou’se not. Ah’m not saying 
anything whatever against you.” | 

“Except that I’m not good enough. . . . Now 
then, please, Mrs. Allanby, won’t you look at it this 
way for aminute? I could just as well marry Nick 
to-morrow ‘i 

She stopped for an instant. 

“And I wz//,” she went on, with downcast eyes, 
* “if I can’t get you to help me .. . But I want to 
make the best of it. I want us to—to have our 


39 


SHANICE. 6 4 

Mrs. Allanby was beaten. She saw that she 
couldn’t stop this thing. She had either to make a 
futile struggle which would certainly antagonise 
Nick, or she must, as Rosaleen said, make the best 
of a bad bargain. 

“What did you think Ah would do?” she asked 
with a smothered sigh. 

A flush came into Rosaleen’s pallid face. She had 
won! And at once she grew gentler. 

“First of all, if you'd lend me enough money to 
send my sister and her family to Philadelphia, and 
get them settled there,” she said. “I don’t mean 
that I’m—trying to get rid of them, or anything like 
that. I want to help them always, and I’m sure 
Nick will, too. But it’s far better for them not to 
be here—for him not to see them again.” 


284 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


“And what else?” 

“And then . . . if you’ll teach me things—show 
me how to dress, and to act and alijamar eee 
Before I marry Nick?” 

Mrs. Allanby was silent for a while, struggling 
with her profound disappointment. At last, with a 
long, inward sigh: 

‘He might have done worse!” she said to herself, 
and held out her hand to Rosaleen with a charming 


smile. 


III 


RosaLeEN went down the steps of the house with 
a strange feeling of coldness. A hard, scheming 
woman, that’s what she was, determined to use what- 
ever advantage a niggardly fate had given her. Not 
a loving or tender thought was in her head, nothing 
but her odious triumph. 

She reached the street and was half-way along 
the block when she saw him coming. She knew him, 
even in the dark, his heavy, vehement stride, the soft 
hat pulled so low over his eyes, the unbuttoned 
overcoat swaying from his big shoulders. And her 
frigidity suddenly melted, gave place to a sort of 
alarm. She wanted to hide, to avoid him, an im- 
possible desire in that decorous and deserted street. 
There was nothing to do but to advance. She came 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS ~ 285 


abreast of him, but he didn’t turn his head. It never 
occurred to him that Rosaleen could be here, near 
his own home, at this hour. It was simply a woman 
passerby. He went on. . . . And suddenly heard 
her running after him. 

“Mr. Landry,” she cried, with a little laugh. 
“Don’t you know me?” 

He wheeled about, startled. 

“T didn’t expect you to be here,” he said. “I’ve 
Just come from your sister's. I waited there... I 
wanted to see you.” 

“Yes,” she said, “and I wanted to see you. I’ve 
been having a talk with your aunt.” 

“What about?” he asked, hastily. 

“Oh ... Let’s walk over into the Park and 
talk?” 

He assented, rather ungraciously, because he 
would have preferred making the suggestion him- 
self, and they turned down the next cross street and 
into a deserted and solitary walk in the Park. It 
was a harsh and blustery night; no rain was falling, 
but the walks were wet and glistening and the bare 
_ branches shook down chilly drops when the wind 
blew. There was no one about; they had the place 
to themselves, and Nick selected a bench near a 
light, where he could see her face—if he wished. 


286 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


He took a newspaper from his overcoat pocket and 
spread it for her to sit on. 

“Now,” he said. “Let’s hear what you had to 
say to Aunt Emmie!”’ . 

His tone wasn’t pleasant; this visit had made him 
suspicious and uneasy. , 

“T wanted . . . no, I’d rather not tell you .. . 
said Rosaleen. 

“Very well!’ he said briefly. 

He slouched down, his hands thrust deep in his 
pockets, looking at the trees and shrubs before him 
absur_ly illuminated by the electric light. Like 
scenery on the stage, he thought, except that the 
colours were too drab and indefinite. . . . He felt 


99 


extraordinarily miserable, sorrowful, irritated. He 
began to feel sorry for this partner of his dreary 
romance. 

“You'll marry me at once, won’t you, Rosaleen?” 
he asked, with an innocent sort of kindness. And 
instead of answering as he had expected, she cried 
suddenly— 

“Why?” 

He tried his best to say ‘Because we love each | 
other,”’ but he could not utter the words. A gust of 
wind brought down a shower from the tree behind 
them, pattering with sudden violence on his hat. 

“Well. ...” he said,  dyresolutelyjo een 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS 287 


we re too—mature to be very sentimental, aren’t we, 
Rosaleen? . . . I mean—we /ke each other... 
we get on well together . . .” 

\ “How do you know? We've never tried.” 

“We would, I’m sure. . .. There’s no use in 
talking and talking about the thing. We wanted 
to get married, and now, at last, we can.” 

“Perhaps—we don’t want to. Perhaps it’s too 
Jute, 

“Nonsense!” he said, brusquely, but horribly 
without conviction. He had nothing to say, really; 
he was unable to plead, to argue, even to discuss. 
Another melancholy shower came down on them, 
and he rose. 

“Better not sit here,’ he said. “You'll be 
drenched.” 

She didn’t answer. He waited a few minutes, 
then he said, a little impatiently: 

“Come! You'd better not sit here!” 

He was desperate to escape from this intolerable 
situation. He bent over to take her by the hand 
and raise her to her feet, when he observed that she 
was wiping her eyes with a crumpled handkerchief. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked, gently. 

He could hardly believe his ears. 

“What! he cried, startled. 

And she repeated her amazing phrase. 


288 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


“You've cheated me,” she sobbed. 

“But how?” he demand. “In what way? What 
do you mean?” 

He had to sit down beside her again to hear her 
words. 

“Tl wanted you ... . to: be So alegre 
loving,” she sobbed. 

“To be dear and loving,” he repeated, in astonish- 
ment. 

And suddenly she stretched out her arms toward 
him. He faltered, for an instant, and then he 
caught her tightly in a compassionate embrace. He 
was so sorry for the weeping and sorrowful woman. 
She strained herself close against him, with her arms 
about his neck, still sobbing a little, her soft hair 
brushed against his face. ... His compassion 
began to go, began to merge into a passionate tender- 
ness. He kissed her with delight, with rapture, this 
sweet and mysterious woman. ... He drew her 
head down on his breast, and looked at her in the 
strained, thin light high overhead. He lost himself 
in the radiance of her eyes, the curves of her patient 
and tender mouth; he kissed her again, and was 
startled at the texture of her skin. Her hair was like 
a misty halo about her face; her eyes met his with a 
look which he could not comprehend, but which 
thrilled him beyond measure. . . . He had here the 


THE HONOURABLE LOVERS ~ 289 


answer to all his miserable perplexity. Never once 
_ during all the time he had known her had he held her 
like this. He hadn’t even had the sense to realise 
that he wished to do so. And not knowing this, he 
had known nothing. This ecstasy was the reason, 
was the very core and heart of the situation. 

“T love you,” he said, with absolute conviction, 
absolute sincerity. She raised her head and gave 
him a sudden, fierce little kiss. 

“What was the after with us this evening?” she 
cried. ‘How could we have been so stupid, after 
we've loved each other so long?’ 

It was just that, the long thwarting and crushing 
of their love, that had so wounded them both. That 
love, without a sign, without so much as a hand- 
clasp, starved, chilled, denied, had grown morose 
and fearful. It was only now, with her pitiful and 
lovely feminine gesture, that she had broken down 
the barrier between them. Their love had nothing 
to do with suitability and expediency, as known to 
them: it was suitable and expedient according to a 
plan older and subtler than the social one of which 
they were aware. They were the one man and the 
one woman. There was something between them 
indestructible and inexplicable, something sturdier 
and deeper than desire and yet whose root was in 
desire. | 


290 ROSALEEN AMONG THE ARTISTS 


Rosaleen, thrilled and exultant as she was, was ~ 
nevertheless a woman, and forever anxious. 

“You're sure?” she asked. “You're sure I won’t 
ruin your life if I marry you?” 

“Tm sure you'll ruin my life if you don’t!” he 
said. 

They saw nothing but the life that lay before 
them: they had forgotten all that had gone by: they 
had forgotten the past, as much a part of their 
eternal existence as anything which might yet come. 


THE END 


GETTY CENTER LIBRARY 


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